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THE FINDING OF TONY 


THE 

FINDING OF TONY 


BY 

MARY T. WAGGAMAN 

Author of “Shipmates,” “Captain Ted,” 
“The Queen’s Promise,” etc. 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’s MAGAZINE 

1919 


Copyright, 1919, by Benziger Brothers 


GCl I o I w 

©CrA536236 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 


I. 

Tony and Beppo . 

. . 7 

II. 

A Gala Day 

. . 23 

III. 

A Dark Homecoming 

. . 39 

IV. 

Vernon School . 

. . 55 

V. 

The Two Friends . 

. . 73 

VI. 

The Winter Chill . 

. . 91 

VII. 

A Christmas Eve . 

. . 105 

VIII. 

The Lost Lamb 

. . 119 

IX. 

Safe in the Fold . 

. . 133 




THE FINDING OF TONY 


CHAPTER I 

TONY AND BEPPO 

T hey sat together on a big coil of rope, 
Tony’s bare feet dangling over the 
pier. His shirt was torn and his trousers 
displayed much more of two sturdy legs 
than fashion demanded, and his soft black 
hair curled through the broken rim of his 
hat. 

Beppo was in better trim. True, the 
gold that bordered his red skirt and jacket 
was rather tarnished, and his feathered cap 
had seen better and brighter days, but on 
the whole his costuming was all that a 
monkey’s given to much journeying through 

dusty streets should be. 

7 


8 


Tony and Beppo 


Though the long cord that attached him 
to Tony’s arm admitted of wide range, over 
altogether new territory, this morning he 
was evidently in no mood for exploration, 
but sat close to Tony’s knee gravely survey- 
ing the unusual scene. For never had his 
wanderings taken him to the busy wharves 
of the great city before, and the deep 
waters stretching far into the blue distance, 
the boats crowding the piers, the clanging 
of bells, the shrieking of steam whistles, the 
shouting voices, the hurrying crowds, were 
bewildering if not alarming novelties to the 
monkey mind. But Beppo had unlimited 
confidence in his little black eyed master, 
and was not afraid. Old Benito might 
kick and beat and starve him, but Tony was 
ever ready to stand as sturdily as a boy of 
ten could between him and the grizzly old 
Padrino’s wrath. It was Tony who gave 
him place on the hard straw bed at his feet, 
and shared with him his own scant fare, 


Tony and Beppo 


9 


hustled him out of the way when Benito 
came home, fierce eyed and fierce tempered, 
after a bad day. For Benito was old and 
bent, and it was hard work dragging the 
heavy organ from street to street, pausing 
at the corners to let it wheeze out its ancient 
tunes, while Beppo scrambled up steps and 
window ledges to gather pennies or nickels 
in his little red cap. 

A year ago Tony had gone along with 
the organ, singing to his tambourine, and 
the nickels had come thick and fast then, 
and pretty ladies had even dropped quarters, 
and old Benito’s leathern purse was full. 
But a policeman had followed them home 
one day and asked many questions, and said 
this was free America where all little boys 
must go to school. And since then Benito 
had kept Tony hidden away from policemen 
and schools, and free Americans, up in old 
Elena’s room under the roof, cracking and 
picking nuts. 


10 


Tony and Beppo 


Old Elena’s hands were stiff and knotted, 
but Tony’s brisk little brown fingers could 
crack and pick the twenty pounds a day for 
which the factory around the corner paid 
Elena forty cents, one-half of which, being 
Tony’s, Benito claimed every night for the 
old leathern purse, that was often empty 
now. 

But there was neither organ grinding or 
nut picking to-day. Something had hap- 
pened to Benito last night. He lay still and 
gray faced staring at the ceiling, and old 
Elena was taking care of him. She had 
pushed Tony and Beppo out of the room 
and told Tony he must say nothing of 
Benito’s sickness or the doctors and nurses 
might come (as they had to Felippo) and 
carry him off and perhaps cut him up with 
sharp knives in the American way. 

So it was that Tony and Beppo were 
taking a holiday this morning, and had wan- 
dered off through dark winding streets until 


Tony and Beppo 


11 


they found themselves on the wharf where 
they sat down to eat the three bananas 
bought at Pietro’s push cart, and enjoy the 
busy scene. Besides the bananas, Tony had 
a pocket full of nuts left from his yester- 
day’s picking, so they had all the breakfast 
boy and monkey could ask. 

A great boat lay at the pier, beside them. 
It was all painted in white and gold, and had 
gay awnings stretched over its deck, and a 
name, which Tony, who had never been to 
school, spelled out with some difficulty, 
"'River Queen"" 

Though stout ropes still held her fast, the 
"River Queen"" was panting and puffing as 
if impatient to be off. For that she was 
going on some very pleasant journey it was 
plain. She was all aflutter with flags and 
pennants, a brass band was tuning up on 
her decks, men were rolling all sorts of 
things up the gang plank, crates of oranges 
and lemons, bunches of bananas, boxes that 


12 


Tony and Beppo 


held out delightful promises of crackers and 
cakes, as Tony who was wise in the ways of 
the corner stores about his district knew. 
And last, but not least, three huge freezers 
that meant ice cream in three different colors 
and in quantity quite beyond anything he 
had ever seen. 

“It’s a wedding,” thought Tony; “no, it 
can’t be for people don’t have weddings on 
boats, nor funerals either — nor, nor feasts” 
— and then he paused in his consideration, 
to stare open mouthed and open eyed, for 
half a dozen cars coming down the street, 
that skirted the water side, had stopped in a 
line and were discharging their contents at 
the end of the wharf. Boys and girls! 
Boys in blue and gray and khaki, girls in 
pink and green, and red and white — a very 
rainbow river of laughing, chattering boys 
and girls, was streaming on to the waiting 
boat, such a full gay river that it overflowed 
over lines and bounds and brimmed glee- 


Tony and Beppo 


13 


fully to the very edges of the pier, where 
half a dozen boys pirouetted recklessly over 
the water to the dismay of their sisters. 
“Dan! Joe! Jimmy! don’t — don’t — you’ll 
tumble in.” 

Tony sat mute and bewildered at the in- 
cursion, but Beppo started up. His busi- 
ness was with boys and girls in a merry 
mood, he knew. In a moment his cap was 
off, and his string had tautened and he was 
bowing and hopping and dancing in the 
very thick of the laughing, screaming crowd. 

“A monkey! a monkey! Oh, the darling, 
cute, funny little monkey! Oh, Father 
John, Father John,” rose the delighted 
shout, as a tall gray haired gentleman hur- 
ried forward to discover the cause of the 
excitement. “Did you get us the monkey 
too?” 

And then Beppo capped the climax by 
springing to Father John’s shoulder as he 
was accustomed to spring on old Benito’s 


14 


Tony and Beppo 


when his performance was done, and to bow 
right and left in grave good-by. 

“Oh! oh! oh!” went up a startled chorus. 
But neither man nor monkey tricks could 
startle Father J ohn. 

“The little rascal,” he laughed, holding up 
a friendly forefinger for Beppo to clasp. 
“No, he wasn’t on our program, boys, but 
if he will make more fun for you, bring him 
along.” 

“No — no — no, they can not, they shall 
not,” broke in a passionate young voice, and 
Tony, ragged and bare legged, started for- 
ward boldly to claim and defend. “He is 
mine — my monkey, my own — my own — 
come down to me, Beppo, come away — come 
away.” 

But whether it was the friendly forefinger 
he still clasped, or some more subtle mag- 
netism that held him, Beppo nodded and 
blinked at his young master, and kept his 
place. Then, indeed, Tony’s black eyes 


15 


Tony and Beppo 

flashed, and he flamed up into hot Italian 
wrath that burst out in words, which luckily 
only F ather J ohn could understand. 

Instantly the priest’s kind face grew 
grave, and he lifted Beppo from his 
shoulder. 

“Tut, tut, tut, that is not the way to talk, 
my son. We would not take your monkey 
away against your will. But,” the speaker 
cast a pitying glance at the sturdy, ragged, 
defiant little figure, the glance of a good 
Shepherd at a stray, uncared for lamb — “if 
you and your monkey would like to come 
with us, you may. This is the biggest Sun- 
day School excursion of the season — Saint 
Martin’s, Saint Mary’s, Saint Catherine’s — 
all rolled into one, and we’re going to have 
a great day together. We are starting off 
in about five minutes on this big boat here, 
so you must make up your mind quickly. 
Would you like to come along?” 

Come along! In this wonderful boat. 


16 


Tony and Beppo 


with its fluttering flags, its swelling music, 
for the band was in full swing now — with its 
crates of oranges and lemons, and boxes of 
cakes and crackers, its freezers of ice cream! 
But — but — also — alas, with all this, this 
crowd of — boys and girls, to stare, to won- 
der, perhaps, to laugh at the Dago. 

“I — I don’t know,” faltered Tony. 

“Perhaps your father and mother should 
be asked first,” said Father. “I wish we 
could wait, but” — the boat gave an im- 
patient whistle as he spoke. 

“No,” blurted out Tony, recklessly. “I 
haven’t got any father or mother. I haven’t 
got any one but Benito — and,” he thought 
of the gray still face uplifted to the 
ceiling and became cautious as old Elena 
had warned — “Benito — wouldn’t care. I’ll 
bring Beppo along, and he will make fun for 
the boys and girls, as you said. He can 
dance — play dead — and count — and do lots 
of tricks, I will come.” 


17 


Tony and Beppo 

And so Tony and Beppo came on the big 
Sunday School excursion and began such an 
experience as never in all their short, dark- 
ened, half -starved lives they had known or 
dreamed. At first it was a very shy, be- 
wildered Tony that pressed on with the chat- 
tering crowd over the gangway and into the 
white and gold splendor of the boat, while 
the band played and the whistles sounded 
and the bells clanged, and, looking as if she 
were laden with gay flowers from stem to 
stern, the River Queen with her burden of 
pretty girls and boys swept from her moor- 
ing down the sunlit stream. 

But Beppo proved all the introduction 
his little master needed. Beppo who, feel- 
ing that here was an audience worthy of 
him, showed off in a way that kept the young 
excursionists in laughing, shouting glee. 
He marched, he drilled with the toy gun 
that Tony had in his jacket pocket, he 
played* dead without the flicker of an eyelid. 


18 


Tony and Beppo 


until his young master called him to life, he 
danced and somersaulted, and scrambled up 
masts and awning poles ; he counted pennies 
and nickels — shaking his head gravely when 
he found they wouldn’t come out right, and 
searching the pockets of the roguish boys 
who had filched them away. So very popu- 
lar was Beppo, that his young master soon 
forgot his shyness, and roused into merry 
life too, his black eyes dancing, his white 
teeth shining in winning smiles as he urged 
his red capped comrade on to further antics. 

Meantime the boat was speeding down the 
river, the blue waters widening as it went, 
while the band played and the children 
danced and sang to the music. Sweet faced 
teachers went to and fro with gentle care for 
their special little lambs, and Father John, 
the kindest and j oiliest of good shepherds, 
kept friendly watch over all. 

‘‘Having a good time?” he asked, pausing 


Tony and Beppo 


19 


by Tony, who had relinquished Beppo’s 
leading string to a big sandy haired boy, and 
was staring up at the pulsing machinery 
with wondering eyes. Father John spoke 
in Italian, and his young listener’s face 
kindled at the familiar sound. 

“Yes, yes,” he nodded brightly, “fine 
time, great time, thanks to you. Signor, who 
let me and Beppo come.” 

“Signor” the word grated strangely on 
Father John’s ear. Ah, this was a stray 
lamb indeed, who did not know the Shep- 
herd’s voice or garb. “You are not a 
Catholic then, my son?” 

“No, no, no,” answered Tony quickly. 
“Not Catholic, no, no, no — never, no, no.” 

“And why not?” asked Father John, 
gravely. “You are Italian. Italy is a 
Catholic land.” 

“I do not know,” Tony lifted bewildered 
eyes to the questioner’s face. “It was so 


20 


Tony and Beppo 


long ago that I came a little baby boy; my 
mother died on the water, Benito says, and 
he took me for his own.” 

‘‘And robbed you of your birthright, your 
faith,” Father John spoke sadly, sternly. 
There was so much of this robbing, so many 
wolves carrying off the lambs of the fold. 

“Ah, no, no,” Tony answered in eager 
defense. “Benito does not rob. Signor; he 
is cross and angry sometimes, he strikes, he 
beats, but he does not rob. Ah, no, no, and 
where I would have gone if he had not taken 
me, I can not tell. For I have no father, no 
mother, no brother, no sister. There is only 
Beppo and me.” 

“And this man, this Benito keeps you and 
the monkey to earn money for him?” asked 
Father John. “Does he never send you to 
church or school?” 

“School!” Tony grew suddenly cautious 
at the word. This was a topic to be avoided, 
he knew. “Sometimes,” he evaded, “when 


Tony and Beppo 21 

Elena washed my shirt and I have shoes, I 
go to church.” 

“What church?” asked his questioner. 

“Methodist, Baptist, Jew, Presbyter — I 
do not know all the names,” Tony smiled 
up engagingly into Father John’s face. 
“Benito says to go where they speak 
American, and give money for shoes.” 

“Ah, my boy, my poor little boy;” there 
was almost a sob in Father John’s deep- 
toned voice. “You have been robbed in- 
deed.” And into his heart there came the 
eager longing of the good Shepherd to lift 
this poor lamb out of the brambles that en- 
tangled him, and bear him back to the fold. 




CHAPTER II 


A GALA DAY 

B ut there was no time to talk more to 
Tony now. The River Queen was 
slowing up for the goal of her journey, a 
long wharf jutting out under the shadow of 
wooded hills. 

Far up under the green trees rose the 
spire of an old gray church, whose pastor 
had placed his whole wide domain at the 
service of the young excursionists. Saint 
Barnaby’s had only the freedom of its green 
fields and groves to offer, but Father John 
had done the rest. 

As the boys and girls broke gleefully from 
the boat and scrambled up the hill, it was to 
find a very fairy land of delight awaiting 
them. Swings, see-saws, sliding boards, a 

23 


24 


A Gala Day 


merry-go-round, half a dozen shaggy little 
ponies, saddled and bridled to ride, targets 
at which the boys could shoot, smooth grassy 
nooks for the girls’ croquet ; most alluring of 
all in its promise, a big red and white 
marquee, with the Stars and Stripes flutter- 
ing from its summit, and long tables already 
set for the coming feasts, stretching to be- 
wildering lengths within. 

“Of course we might have gone to Garden 
Park, or Glen Island,” explained Father 
John, as with some score of the little ones 
dancing and questioning delightedly around 
him, he made his way up the hill. “But a 
rough crowd might have come in upon us, 
and I wanted no black sheep among my 
lambs to-day. So I asked my dear friend. 
Father Laurence, to let me bring you here, 
where the blessing of the good God has 
rested for more than a hundred years, where 
the light has burned upon His altar, and 
our dear Mother Mary has been Lady and 


A Gala Day 


25 


Queen. Before we go we will nave Bene- 
diction in the church and thank Our Lord 
for this glad holiday; until then just scatter 
around and have all the fun you can.” 

And with shouts of delight the children 
scattered over the big playground Father 
John had made ready, and soon the green 
slopes of the river side were echoing with 
laughter and glee. With Beppo, whom big 
Reddy Doane had relinquished to them in 
his arms, Tony stood a bewildered little 
stranger in the midst of this wonderful 
scene. To old Benito’s boy, who knew only 
the want, the harshness, the sad struggle of 
life, the gayety, the gladness, the goodness 
around him was quite incomprehensible. In 
the tottering old tenement of Cobb’s Court 
that was his home, men cursed and fought 
for their daily gains, women squabbled over 
their nickels and pennies, children were 
scolded and beaten and pushed aside. 

What sort of a strange new world was 


26 


A Gala Day 


this where all was kindness and joy and — 
play? Standing under the shade of a big 
spreading tree, Tony felt like the stray he 
was among Father John’s frisking lambs. 
A strange shyness came over him, he was 
going off into the deep shadows of the pines 
near by to hide, when suddenly a hand was 
laid upon his shoulder, and he found Father 
John again at his side. 

“Come, come,” said Father John heartily. 
“You mustn’t lose time like this, my boy. 
Tie your monkey up to one of the trees here 
and be off with the rest. Everything is 
humming, merry-go-round, swings, pom’es — 
take them all in.” 

Tony looked up into the kind face doubt- 
fully — kindness was regarded with suspicion 
at Cobb’s Court. Had not Luigi Ricci lost 
his push cart and its load of bananas only 
last week by listening to a friendly stranger 
who offered to take care of it, while its 
owner secured a box of oranges, going at 


A Gala Day 


27 


next to nothing in a neighboring store? Tie 
Beppo to a tree? With the woods full of 
shouting young bandits perhaps in this kind 
gentleman’s pay — work and pay were the 
only laws Tony knew, he had never learned 
the brighter law of love. 

“No,” he said. “I can’t tie up Beppo, 
some one might take him. And Benito 
would kill me if I came back without him.” 

“Kill you!” laughed Father John. “Oh, 
not as bad as that I hope.” 

“Yes,” said Tony gravely, and there was 
knowledge that startled Father John in the 
boy’s uplifted eyes. “Benito is bad like 
that, I must keep Beppo, and I can not go 
to the swings and the rest for I have only 
five cents to pay.” 

“My poor boy, there is nothing to pay,” 
said Father John pitifully. “Take your 
monkey with you then if you must, but go 
enjoy yourself, with the rest. Joe — 
Teddy,” and the speaker hailed two young- 


28 


A Gala Day 


sters passing by. “Here is a little stranger 
who doesn’t know the ropes of a Sunday 
School picnic. Take him off with you, show 
him a good time.” 

“All right, Father,” was the grinning 
answer, for Joe and Ted were Father John’s 
altar boys, and his word was law. 

And then with Beppo still guarded safely 
at his side, or in his arms, Tony’s good time 
began. He tried the merry-go-round, 
riding the camel, the giraffe, the prancing 
zebra, in delighted succession — he swung, he 
see-sawed, he galloped wildly on the shaggy 
ponies, he shot keen-eyed and sure-handed 
at the mark — and his cheeks grew redder 
and his eyes brighter, and the smile that 
showed his white teeth merrier as the day 
went on. True — once Miss Elinor Grey 
came up to Father John, a troubled shadow 
on her gentle face — “I think you ought to 
know. Father, that boy with the monkey 
uses very bad language when he misses the 


A Gala Day 29 

mark. You see I understand Italian.” 

“I am sorry,” said Father John gravely; 
‘‘still as long as it is in Italian, my child, it 
can not hurt our little ones. We must not 
be too strict on this stray lamb. He does 
not know.” 

And, when a little later the big marquee 
was filled with his happy flock, and looking 
down the long expanse of tables. Father 
John saw Tony laughing and bright eyed, 
piling in cakes, oranges, ice cream, every- 
thing within his reach, while Beppo hopped 
around, from guest to guest, gathering 
goodies in every hand — he was glad that he 
had not darkened this gala day for the little 
stranger by words of rebuke — however de- 
served. It was a time, as this good Shep- 
herd knew, to wait and forbear. 

“Why, you can eat a lot,” laughed Ted, 
as Tony disposed of his third saucer of ice 
cream. “It would be the doctor for me to- 
night if I piled in things like that.” 


30 


A Gala Day 


“It will be a long time before I go to a 
feast like this again,” answered Tony 
frankly. “Always I have to wait until 
every one is done and take what is left, 
Beppo and me. Never have we been 
treated so fine before. I will remember it 
always, and the Signor who has been so 
kind.” 

“The Signor! You mean Father John?” 
said Ted staring. Joe had gone off with 
some other mates, but blue-eyed Ted, true to 
his trust, still held to Father John’s charge. 

The feast was over now and all had scat- 
tered under the great spreading trees. Ted 
and Tony flung themselves on the grass, 
while Beppo, filled to unusual repletion, 
curled himself up for a nap nearby. 

“Your father!” blurted Tony simply. 
“Ah, it is good to have a father like that — 
so rich and kind.” 

“Gee, no, not my real father,” blurted out 


A Gala Day 


31 


Ted. “You are a queer kid. Don’t you 
know Father J ohn is a priest?” 

“A priest !” echoed Tony staring, and over 
the young face there came a sudden shadow 
of fear. “The Signor who brought me here 
— a priest? Oh, no — surely no.” 

Again Ted stared; the round-eyed little 
acolyte of Saint Martin’s found his com- 
panion incomprehensible. “What did you 
think he was?” he asked. “Taking all this 
bunch out on a picnic and giving us all this 
good time.” 

“I did not know,” stammered Tony. “A 
priest!” And he cast a furtive, frightened 
glance at the group under the big tree not 
far away where Father John sat in a big 
rustic chair with Miss Meredith’s baby class 
gathered about his knee. “Now I wonder,” 
came the cheery voice to Tony’s listening 
ear — “how many in this crowd know how to 
play, Simon says ‘wiggle waggle’?” 


32 


A Gala Day 


Tony’s eyes followed the baby game 
wonderingly. He had heard only wicked 
stories about priests. Benito, old renegade 
that he was, hated them. Tony had been 
told to run when he met one on the street, 
or he might have the evil eye cast on him — 
never to go in their church where there were 
dark boxes in which little boys were locked 
up and taken away. And it was understood 
in the various Sunday Schools, which he had 
fitfully attended, that boys who went to the 
priest church could not expect tickets to 
Christmas dinners or mittens or shoes. And 
now — now Tony looked again at the figure 
under the tree, but not even the sight of little 
Jack Brady who had perched himself on 
F ather J ohn’s lap and was playing with the 
cross worn upon his watch guard could quiet 
his fears. 

Oh, why had he come, why had he let 
himself be carried off in this bewildering 
way? Had not Benito told him that when 


A Gala Day 


33 


people give you soft speech and kind looks 
they always mean you harm. For such had 
been our poor little Tony’s teachings until 
to-day. But he was to learn a great deal 
more before the day was done. Ted was 
talking now rather indignantly. ‘T thought 
everybody knew Father John. Haven’t 
you ever seen his church, Saint Martin’s? 
It’s just the finest in town. My, you ought 
to have seen our altar at the Forty Hours 
last week, I guess we had more than a thou- 
sand candles on it. Father John wouldn’t 
have electric lights. He says candles seem 
more loving-like. And lilies! my mother 
sent three dozen herself. I guess we had 
every lily that could be bought in town.” 

“A thousand lights ! All the lilies in 
town!” repeated Tony in wonder. 

“Well, I didn’t count them,” said truthful 
Ted, “but they looked like a thousand. I 
tell you Saint Martin’s just beats the band.” 
And Ted proceeded to describe the glories 


34 


A Gala Day 


of his church and school with boyish pride — 
the Christmas tree, the May procession, the 
new baseball team in which he was pitcher, 
the field which was all Saint Martin’s own. 

Tony listened, half comprehending; only 
the story of the lilies and the lights seemed 
to finger in his mind. Where had he seen, 
heard — dreamed — of lilies and fights before 
— fights shining, glowing in countless num- 
bers — ^lilies, green leaved, white sheathed, 
rising tier above tier. Lights! lilies! it was 
as if Ted’s words had struck some lost note 
of music — some faint chord of childish 
memory, silent for years. Before Benito 
took him — before the long journey over the 
wide waters — before — all things that he 
could remember — there had been a glory of 
fights and lilies, such as Ted had told of 
to-day. When was it? Where? Ah, that 
poor little Tony did not know. 

And now there came a new stir in the 
merry groups gathered under the trees. 


35 


A Gala Day 

F ather J ohn had risen, sweet-faced ladies 
were moving here and there assembling their 
charges, and marshaling them in lines. 
Miss Elinor Grey, who understood Itahan, 
came up to Ted and Tony — '‘We are form- 
ing for the procession to church,” she said. 
“Go take the lead of your class, Ted. Miss 
Millicent has the banners. We are to walk 
in procession to the church, singing the 
Litany, and” — Miss Elinor cast a disap- 
proving glance at Ted’s companion. She 
could not quite forget Tony’s language. “I 
hope you and your monkey will keep out of 
the way and not distract the children. Do 
you understand?” 

Yes, Tony understood, he felt he had no 
place in the happy ranks forming now, he 
stood aside with Beppo, watching, wonder- 
ing what it all could mean. For swing, see- 
saws, merry-go-rounds, were deserted; 
through the sunlit aisles of the woods the 
boys and girls were ranging themselves in 


36 


A Gala Day 


double lines, each group headed by a flutter- 
ing banner. F ather John clapped his hands 
and there was a sudden silence, every chat- 
tering little tongue was hushed. And then 
— then — the woods and the lawns and the 
green slopes of the river bank woke into 
music as — five hundred sweet childish voices 
burst into song. 

“Sancta Maria,” rose the silver-toned 
chorus, as the procession wound its way 
under the arching boughs of the oaks and 
cedars to the old gray church in the grove 
beyond. “Sancta Genitrix — Sancta Virgo 
Virginum, Ora pro nobis — Ora pro nobis!” 
Again as Tony listened the strange waking 
thrill went through his young heart, the 
thrill that belonged to the lights and the 
lilies. “Ora pro nobis.” He knew those 
words — that music, and he could sing, as 
Benito’s purse in the days when Tony and 
his tambourine followed the organ had 
proved. 


A Gala Day 


37 


“Ora pro nobis!” Deep in the shadow of 
the pines where he and Beppo had with- 
drawn, “out of the way” at Miss Elinor’s 
bidding, Tony stood listening until the music 
within his soul could be held in no longer, 
and his rich sweet young voice burst forth in 
the blessed refrain — “Ora pro nobis 1” 
Marching in the midst of his white lambs. 
Father John caught the full clear notes 
rising in wonderful music above the rest. 
He glanced up and down his ranks to see 
whence this heavenly voice came, but no 
strange singer was in sight — “Ora pro 
nobis!” rose in thrilling sweetness almost at 
his side, and there in the clump of dwarf 
pines by which he was passing, deep in the 
shadows to which this lost lamb had been 
consigned, stood Tony — the waif and stray 
— Tony who knew little more than the 
monkey perched on his shoulder, singing 
with all his heart and voice — the praises of 
her, whose Litany is the household prayer of 


38 


A Gala Day 


the Mother Church. “Ora pro nobis,” sang 
Tony with the soft Italian accent, made dear 
by Father John’s college memories — ^“Ora 
pro nobis,” rose the unconscious cry of the 
little lost lamb in the pine thicket. And 
surely the Good Shepherd and his sweet 
Mother heard. 


CHAPTER III 


A DARK HOMECOMING 

T he River Queen was taking its way 
home. The procession had wound 
through the greenwood paths to the old gray 
church, where Father Laurence had been 
waiting for it, and there had been a beautiful 
Benediction amid a glory of flowers and 
lights as a fitting finish to this happy day. 
And now the young picnickers had been 
gathered on the big boat again, and the sky 
was all gold and red with the summer sunset, 
and the river shimmered like a rainbow path- 
way into violet mists beyond. 

The children were a little tired, as we all 
grow tired even in the happiest, merriest 
days ; it is only in heaven that we never grow 
weary or dull. Even Beppo had lost some- 
thing of his liveliness, and nestled quietly in 

39 


40 A Dark Homecoming 

his little master’s arms, as standing by the 
deck rail, Tony watched the wooded shores 
by which the boat was sweeping on its rapid 
way. 

He was going home, after this wonderful 
day. No one had hurt or harmed or cast 
an evil eye upon him — it had all been kind- 
ness and gladness, such as he had never 
known. What would old Benito say when 
he heard of it all, of the crowds of singing 
children, of the church into which Tony had 
looked through the low arched window, of 
the priest! Ah, Benito must never hear of 
him, and little pagan that he was, Tony was 
just considering what sort of a story he could 
make up to fully explain his long absence, 
when, to his dismay, for he had been dis- 
creetly keeping out of his way all evening, 
he found Father John again at his side. 
Tony drew a long frightened breath, per- 
haps he was not to escape the evil eye after 


A Dark Homecoming 


41 


“Ah! I have been looking for you,” and 
Tony’s heart sank at the cheery words. “I 
was afraid we had left you behind. Out 
with it you little rogue, you must be one of 
us after all, or you could never have sung as 
you did to-day.” 

“Was it wrong?” asked Tony tremu- 
lously. 

“Wrong,” echoed his questioner. “Not 
at all. It was most beautifully right, and I 
mean to hold on to you for Saint Martin’s if 
I can, and never let you go.” 

“No, no, no!” burst forth Tony quite mis- 
understanding the kindly words. “You can 
not, you shall not keep me. No, no, no, 
Benito told me you would take me?” he con- 
tinued desperately. “But I did not know 
this morning, I did not know. Benito told 
me, me — never never to go near a priest.” 

“Ah!” said Father John with sudden 
comprehension. “So that is it, my poor 
little boy, my poor little blinded boy. 


42 A Dark Homecoming 

Listen to me, Tony, what Benito told you 
is not true. I will not hold you, keep you, 
harm you, my son. You shall go back to 
Benito to-night, I promise you. But first, 
let us sit down on this bench here and have 
a little talk. Run away my children.” 
Father John nodded to the staring young- 
sters gathered around, and they scattered at 
his word, feeling that Tony was in for a 
fatherly lecture they must not hear. 

“Now,” said Father John, as he drew the 
boy down on the bench beside him. “I am 
not going to hold you, or keep you, or hurt 
you, as Benito said. We have had a nice 
day together, and we are going to part good 
friends even if I am a priest. None of these 
other little boys are afraid of me, as you 
see.” 

“No,” said Tony still trembling; “but 
you said — you said — ” 

“Only that I wanted you to sing with the 
other little boys in my choir,” explained 


A Dark Homecoming 


43 


Father John laughing. “Where did you 
learn to sing — ‘Ora pro nobis,’ Tony?” 

“I do not know”— somehow under the 
charm of that friendly tone, the touch of the 
arm flung about his shoulder, Tony was for- 
getting his fears — “It came to my tongue 
when I heard the others — ‘Ora pro nobis.’ 
It is like the lilies and the lights — something 
I must have dreamed.” 

“The lilies and the lights,” repeated 
Father John. 

“Yes,” answered Tony. “Ted told me 
about them, and when I looked into the 
church window this evening it was as if I 
had seen them all before, and heard the 
music and the singing. It was more beauti- 
ful than the churches in town where they 
give shoes.” 

“And you were afraid to come in, my 
poor boy.” 

“Yes,” said Tony. “The lady told me I 
must keep Beppo away. But I could see 


44 A Dark Homecoming 

through the window. I was sorry when it 
was all over, I would like to see it again.” 

“And you shall,” said his listener heartily. 
“Come, let us see if we can not strike a bar- 
gain with this hard old Benito of yours. 
He would like you to earn five dollars a 
month for him, I know.” 

“Five dollars!” echoed Tony breathlessly; 
“never could I earn so much as that. Mel” 

“Yes, you can. I will give you five dol- 
lars a month to sing in Saint Martin’s choir,” 
said Father J ohn, who had been wondering 
all day how he could secure a shepherd’s 
hold on this lost lamb, for that the wily old 
padrino was not keeping Tony for mere 
benevolence, he knew. Perhaps it was the 
boy’s voice — perhaps there was some more 
evil purpose in the old man’s thoughts — per- 
haps, ah, so many dangers threatened this 
little dark-eyed stranger in his fold, that 
Father John’s kind heart ached to gather 
him in safely with the rest of his happy flock. 


A Dark Homecoming 45 

and lead him home. But there was nothing 
he could do to-night, and he might never see 
his little guest of this summer day again. For 
already the sunset glow was fading; far off 
the lights of the city were beginning to glim- 
mer in the gathering dusk. The beautiful 
day was done. 

“We’ll talk to Benito about it,” said 
Father John. “Tell him that you found me 
a rather nice sort of a fellow, and that you 
would like to come and sing for me, and — if 
you can, be round for practice at Saint Mar- 
tin’s Rectory Thursday night at eight. 
And — if you can’t come to sing, you might 
drop in and see me anyhow. After this 
pleasant day together we must be friends.” 

Father John held out his hand, and Tony 
slipped his own into it trustingly, all 
Benito’s warnings forgotten. 

“I will come,” he said smiling up into the 
kind face. “You have been a good friend 
to me to-day, and I will come.” 


46 A Dark Homecoming 

A little later the boat touched the wharf, 
and its crowd of young passengers was being 
safely marshaled ashore by watchful teach- 
ers, the sleepy little ones guarded by their 
elders, while cars and automobiles waited in 
line to take the tired little excursionists to 
happy homes. 

But there was no one to watch or wait for 
Tony. With Beppo in his arms he scurried 
along the water front that looked strange 
and lonely in the gathering darkness, and on 
through streets from which all the busy life 
of the morning had gone. What a day it 
had been, what a glad, wonderful, beautiful 
day! “Never will we have such a fine day 
again, Beppo,” he murmured to his red 
capped comrade, as they took their darkened 
way home. “Never again — it will be like 
the hlies and the lights — only a dream.” 

Through an arched passageway between 
great warehouses that stood black and silent 
in the coming night, Tony took the short cut 


A Dark Homecoming 47 

to Cobb’s Court. It was a row of tottering 
tenements, only awaiting the decree that was 
to clear them out of this crowded business 
neighborhood effectually. Meanwhile rents 
at Cobb’s Court were low and tenants 
plentiful. They were out in front of their 
open doors and broken steps to-night, and 
Tony’s quick ears seemed to catch some un- 
usual excitement. 

There had been a fight perhaps which was 
no uncommon occurrence at Cobb’s Court, 
or one of the children had been lost or run 
over, which was equally probable. Tragedy 
always loomed so sadly near at Cobb’s Court 
that Tony was quite used to it. But he was 
unprepared for the shrill cries that greeted 
his appearance. 

“Tony! Tony! Tell Elena he is back, 
here is Tony with his Beppo, and he does 
not know, he has not heard.” 

“What?” asked Tony, a little frightened 
at being such an object of interest. 


48 A Dark Homecoming 

‘‘Bad hearted boy that you are to run 
away at such a time/’ said Filippo’s grand- 
mother, shaking her stick at him from her 
door. 

“Who will put bread in your mouth now,” 
cried another old woman. 

“What has happened?” asked Tony in 
bewilderment. 

“Benito,” rose the shrill chorus, “where 
have you been that you did not know Benito 
is dead?” 

Benito dead — dead! A chill struck 
into Tony’s young heart at the words. 
Benito who, harsh and rough as he often was, 
had stood for all the care, the protection the 
boy had ever known in this strange world, 
where he had no place. Benito dead! 
Where would he go, what would he do? 

Dulled and hushed by the shock, Tony 
made his way to his own door, where a long 
black streamer of crepe confirmed all he had 
heard. With faltering steps he climbed the 


A Dark Homecoming 49 

broken stairs that led to Benito’s room and 
paused fearfully on the threshold. A dim 
light burned within, while several men whom 
Tony did not know stood around. On the 
stiff, white-covered bed Benito lay, gray and 
still, as if carved of stone, a Benito more 
terrible in his stern awful silence than he 
had ever been in his fiercest wrath. 

The boy gave one glance at the motionless 
figure, then fled away up the crooked steps 
to the garret where old Elena was shuffling 
around sorting her neglected nuts. Elena 
was brown and wrinkled as a nut herself, 
she often scolded — aye, and boxed Tony’s 
ears soundly when he lagged at his work, 
but she was weak and trembling to-night. 
For years she had been too dulled to think, 
but Benito’s death had roused memories, 
fears, that were stirring her strangely. 
Though she caught Tony by the arms and 
shook him fiercely, as she scolded him for his 
long absence, in a moment she had dropped 


50 A Dark Homecoming 

back in her old chair whimpering and 
shaking. 

“Aye, he has gone, Benito has gone, he 
gave me the last look which means that I 
will be next. But not like that, never like 
that without prayer or priest or blessing. 
To-morrow I go back to Santa Maddalena 
— to-morrow I kneel again before the cross, 
the altar. I tell my sins, I make my soul 
right with the good God. Never will I go 
like Benito before His face, never — never.” 

Tony heard in bewilderment — Elena was 
talking of things he could not understand. 
And then to cheer the poor trembling old 
woman he began to tell her of his day’s ad- 
venture, of the boat, and the picnic, the pro- 
cession, his peep in the church window, and 
the beautiful things he had seen there, of the 
kind signor who had been so good to him, 
and promised to give him five dollars to sing. 

Poor Elena listened breathlessly. It was 


A Dark Homecoming 51 

as if Tony was unveiling pictures clouded 
for years. 

“Ah, I know, I know,” she said. “So I 
used to walk in the procession, strewing 
flowers, so I used to kneel before the altar 
all shining with lights, so I used to sing. 
And my heart was glad and light as a bird 
that flies in the sun. Ah, my poor Tony, of 
this gladness you have never known; for you 
it has been all cold and dark, but now that 
Benito is dead, we will go together where the 
light burns always, and the good God lives 
on the altar to pity, to forgive.” 

And old Elena’s thoughts and memories 
growing brighter, she talked on far into the 
night of fiesta, of Corpus Christi, procession 
of first communion days, of the Christmas 
crib with the angels singing in the skies, and 
the little Jesus lying in the arms of His 
Blessed Mother, of the glorious Easter when 
His altar was abloom with lilies and silver 


52 A Dark Homecoming 

trumpets sounded the triumph of the Risen 
Lord. Never had old Elena talked like this 
before, for the terror of death had roused 
her sleeping soul, and wakened all the 
blessed memories. And Tony listened to 
her as he would not have listened yesterday, 
for his young soul had been stirred by 
glimpses of light and love he had never 
known. 

‘Tt is not like this in the other churches 
where I have gone,” he said. ‘T think I 
would like to go always where there are the 
lights, the lilies, the marching children, and 
every one is happy and glad as you say. 
We will go together, Elena, and learn all 
these beautiful things which I have dreamed. 
I will live here with you and pick nuts, and 
sing for the kind signor who will give me 
five dollars, and you will teach me all these 
beautiful things I do not know.” 

“Ah, yes, yes,” said Elena, catching the 
soft voiced little speaker in her withered 


A Dark Homecoming 53 

arms. '‘My Tony — my Tony, it shall be as 
you say.” 

But alas, for poor old Elena’s belated 
efforts at guidance. Benito was borne off 
by some Secret Society to which he had be- 
longed and buried with scant ceremony next 
day. And as soon as the brief funeral was 
over, a lady and gentleman appeared who 
told Elena they were from the “Evangelical 
Mission” on the next street. They had 
come, they said, for the boy — Antonio 
Capimo, who had been a member of their 
Sunday School and Bible Class. 

“But that can not be,” interrupted old 
Elena excitedly. “Tony is Italian. Tony 
is Catholic. Tony my own boy now who 
must go to church with me.” 

“It is quite useless for you to talk, my 
good woman,” said the lady visitor, taking 
out a black book from her hand bag. “I 
have the boy’s name here enrolled as a mem- 
ber of my Sunday School class. He has ap- 


54 A Dark Homecoming 

plied for and received substantial assistance, 
as our accounts show — ^three pairs of shoes, 
tickets to Christmas dinner and Easter 
festival, a muffler and pair of mittens at 
New Year’s.” 

Tony listened in dull bewilderment to 
debits he could not deny. “Now that his 
guardian and adopted father is dead, it be- 
comes our duty to care for him in a proper 
Christian way. We intend to place him in 
our School for Friendless Boys at once.” 


CHAPTER IV 


VERNON SCHOOL 

T here was no escaping the sentence. 

By laws and rules, which neither old 
Elena nor any one else at Cobb’s Court 
could understand, the lady’s black book 
decreed that Tony was a member of her 
church, her Bible class and her Sunday 
School, that as such he had received mittens, 
mufflers, shoes, and dinner tickets — as such 
he was rightfully her charge and must be 
taken to the Vernon School for Friendless 
Boys at once. 

“It is the American way,” explained 
Pietro and Filippo to old Elena, as Tony, 
all his belongings packed in a small hand 
satchel, was borne off to a waiting auto- 
mobile. “They will teach him to read and 

65 


56 


Vernon School 


write and make money. He will be rich 
and great, and may be a general or a presi- 
dent. All things can happen to poor boys 
in this great country where there are no 
emperors or kings.” 

But Tony had no such brilliant hopes as, 
choking back his rebellious sobs, he found 
himself after an hour’s journey before a 
long bare building, surrounded by a high 
brick wall. Rows of shutterless windows 
kept watch on every side, there was a stretch 
of hard packed playground where some two 
score boys in striped shirts and jean trousers 
were scuffling and wrestling. They stopped 
to stare at the newcomer, as Mrs. Jennings 
(so the lady who had brought Tony was 
called) led him up to the door; and into a 
straight bare entrance hall. 

“How long have I got to stay here?” 
asked Tony, drawing a long breath. 

“That depends,” answered the lady 


Vernon School 


57 


evasively. ‘‘You are most, fortunate in 
having such a godly home where you will 
receive Christian teaching and care.” 

“But — but I don’t — don’t want no teach- 
ing or care,” burst forth Tony passionately. 
“I want to stay at Cobb’s Court and pick 
nuts for old Elena, and go to that church 
that she told me about, and sing.” 

“You will be taught to sing and pray 
properly here,” was the answer, and then 
Miss Melsom, the matron of the Home, and 
the newcomer was properly presented to 
her. Miss Melsom was tall and thin, and 
wore gold rimmed spectacles, that took in 
Tony critically from his tousled black head 
to the broken shoes on his feet. 

“Neglected I see,” she said briefly. 

“Entirely, and you will And him trouble- 
some without doubt,” said Mrs. Jennings. 
“But we had to remove him at once or he 
might have fallen under the Romish influ- 


58 


Vernon School 


ence which he has so far escaped. His 
guardian was an old atheist without church 
or creed.” 

“How terrible,” Miss Melsom shook her 
head solemnly. 

“Well, it might be worse,” was the old 
lady’s reply. “At least there will be no 
meddling. You remember we had some 
trouble with the child Lorenzo Secchi.” 

“I remember,” said Miss Melsom gravely. 

“I think it well you should know that we 
have had another letter of inquiry about 
him. From the same persistent person who 
claims to be the boy’s natural guardian. 
We simply ignored the communication en- 
tirely, which was the easiest way of settling 
matters.” 

“Much the easiest,” agreed Miss Melsom 
sympathetically. 

“In case any letters come here,” Mrs. 
Jennings continued, “I hope you will do 
the same. The boy has been in our care 


Vernon School 


59 


now for more than two years, and we do not 
propose to give him up. How is he doing?” 

“In some things very well,” hesitated 
Miss Melsom. “Mr. Varnum finds him 
very bright at his books. But he seems to 
pine oddly for a child who has no home or 
friends. I used to find him sitting up in 
his bed at night looking at the stars, when 
all the others were asleep. I think he was 
saying Romish prayers to the angels and 
saints.” 

“Which should not be allowed,” said Mrs. 
Jennings severely. 

“Of course not,” replied Miss Melsom. 
“I really had quite a scene with him when 
he first came, and I took away his praying 
beads and some sort of a silver charm he 
wore round his neck. He has been a little 
shy with me ever since.” 

“Oh, he will forget, children of that age 
always do,” said the other lightly. Then 
telling Tony he must be a good boy, and 


60 


Vernon School 


not give any trouble, Mrs. Jennings shook 
hands with Miss Melsom and went away. 

And Tony was taken upstairs and bathed 
and dressed in a striped shirt and trousers, 
and his name put down in a big book, as 
“Antonio Capimo, age ten years. No 
parent or guardian. Entered by the 
Evangelical Mission. Band number 16.” 
This done, he was turned loose into the bare 
stretch of playground where the forty-four 
other Friendless Boys were waiting curi- 
ously to see who and what the newcomer 
was. 

“Gee, if it ain’t another Dago boy,” called 
a big, sandy-haired fellow of twelve. 

“Cut that out,” said Tony, who had 
learned some forcible English at Cobb’s 
Court. “I am an Italian and as good as 
you.” 

“He looks it, don’t he, boys?” scoffed the 
other. “With all them black curls bobbing 
around his head.” 


Vernon School 


61 


“Rather have curls than straw,” retorted 
Tony with a flash in his dark eyes. 

“Bah!” said the ‘straw haired’ bully 
angrily; “we know your Dago kind — soft, 
soft as squashed bananas, ain’t they, boys? 
Lenny, Lenny Secchi! Haul Lenny out, 
boys, and make the Dagoes kiss — make them 
kiss.” 

“I won’t,” said Tony, clenching his hands, 
as with jeering shouts a small boy was 
pushed forward by his teasing mates — a 
delicate little boy with a face like carved 
ivory, and eyes whose long fringed lashes 
made a shadow on his pale cheek. 

“Kiss him, Lenny — kiss Dago fashion; 
hold them, boys, and make them kiss.” 

Lenny pulled back in vain, his tormentors 
were too strong for him, but Tony, trained 
in the rough and tumble of Cobb’s Court, 
was of sterner stuff. Jerking away from 
the boys that tried to master him, he struck 
out right and left in blind fury, one little 


62 


Vernon School 


hard brown fist catching the struggling 
Lenny full in the face and sending the blood 
gushing from mouth and nose. There was 
a terrified pause, as the little fellow sank 
back fainting in the arms of the frightened 
boy behind him ; then an outcry that brought 
Miss Melsom, two startled gentlemen teach- 
ers and three maids, to the spot. 

“He did it, the new boy did it. Miss 
Melsom,” arose the condemning chorus. 
“Lenny was just making friends with him 
and he struck him with his fists.” 

“I didn’t,” blurted out Tony, breathless 
and bewildered. “Oh, I didn’t mean to 
hurt him for — for nothing. It was these — 
these — ” and a very ugly word leaped from 
Tony’s trembling lips to Miss Melsom’s 
shocked ears. 

“Take this boy in hand if you please, Mr. 
Barnard,” she said to the gentleman beside 
her. “I was warned he would be very 
troublesome. Lock him up until I can see 


Vernon School 


63 


if this child here is seriously hurt. The rest 
of you boys go into the study hall at once. 
There will be no more recreation to-day.” 
And with the aid of the excited maid she 
supported the still unconscious Lenny into 
the house, while Tony was led off by the 
severely silent Mr. Barnard, into a small 
upper room, where he was locked in and left 
in fierce, trembling, terrified bewilderment. 
What were they going to do with him? 
Had he killed Lenny? As he thought of 
the little pale, blood-stained face that had 
for a moment been uplifted to his, Tony’s 
stout young heart chilled with an icy fear. 
Stories of jails and cells and death chairs 
that had formed the grisly gossip of Cobb’s 
Court returned to him. 

“But boys couldn’t kill with their fists — 
they couldn’t — they couldn’t,” he said to 
himself sturdily. And again the little 
blood-stained face would come up before 
him, the gentle little face that he would not 


64 


Vernon School 


have hurt for the world, and he would grow 
cold and sick with fear. A wild longing 
for Cobb’s Court, for Filippo, Elena, 
Beppo, all the rough freedom of the past 
came over poor Tony, and he sprang to the 
window with some desperate thought of es- 
cape. Many a night he had shinnied down 
the rotten rain spouts of Cobb’s Court when 
old Benito had come home in an angry mood. 
But there were no rotten rain spouts here. 
The brick walls beneath his windows went 
down sheer and straight with no hold for 
reckless little feet; the door was locked tight 
and fast. Tony flung himself on the floor 
in the flerce fury of the wild, untaught 
creature that he was and sobbed himself 
hoarsely to sleep. 

But pleasant dreams came to his hard pil- 
low. He was back again on the green 
slopes of Saint Barnaby’s and the sunshine 
was trembling through the arching trees and 
the blue river showing in the distance. And 


Vernon School 


65 


again the children were marching in long 
double lines with the blue and white banners 
fluttering, and Father John’s deep-toned 
voice leading the silvery chorus that filled 
the summer air. 

“Ora pro nobis,” the words came clear and 
sweet as from a far off past to Tony’s ear, 
and he was singing with the rest as he had 
sung in the pine shadows with Beppo in his 
arms — . 

“Ora pro nobis — Ora pro nobis.” He 
started up, roused by the sound of his own 
voice, to find that it was night and the stars 
were shining through the window above his 
head, and if Tony had known anything 
about angels he would have surely believed 
that he saw one now in the white figure 
bending over him. 

“It’s me,” said a low, trembling little 
voice. “Don’t be scared. It’s me, Lenny.” 

“You! Lenny!” Tony echoed, rubbing 
his eyes and staring in bewilderment. 


66 


Vernon School 


“Yes, yes,” came the soft answer. 
“Don’t speak loud or they will hear. Miss 
Melsom put me in the sick-room next door, 
and has gone to bed. I heard you singing 
— at first I thought it was the angels, and 
then I woke up wide and knew it was you. 
And I came in — the key was left on the 
outside, to see you, to talk to you, to tell 
you I — I didn’t mind your hurting me to- 
day. You didn’t mean to, I know.” 

“No, I didn’t,” blurted out Tony, grow- 
ing fierce at the remembrance of his wrongs. 
“It was those devils of boys that pushed us 
together.” 

“Yes,” said Lenny. “I would have 
fought too if I could, but I can not, I am not 
strong like you.” 

“Did I hurt you very much?” asked Tony 
remorsefully, as quite wide awake now he 
noted the white bandage about his little 
visitor’s head. 

“Not much”; there was quiet pluck that 


Vernon School 


67 


Tony recognized in the brief answer. 'T 
only saw stars for a moment and then every- 
thing turned black. I would like to have 
hard fists like yours,” continued Lenny wist- 
fully; “but I can not, I must keep my hands 
soft so I can play.” 

“Play!” repeated Tony; “play what?” 

“The violin,” answered Lenny, “as my 
father played it so that tears came to 
people’s eyes when they heard. But he is 
dead now, my mother is dead too. Both are 
in heaven with the good God. It was the 
American wife that my father married that 
put me here.” 

“What for?” asked Tony, as Lenny 
cuddled on the floor beside him to continue 
his confidences. 

“She had a new husband that did not want 
me. They were going far away to live so 
they gave Miss Melsom money to keep me 
here.” 

“And — and do you like it?” asked Tony, 


68 


Vernon School 


who so far was by no means prepossessed 
with his new home. 

There was a moment’s silence, Lenny had 
evidently learned prudence in the School for 
Friendless Boys. “They give you a big 
bowl of porridge for breakfast,” he an- 
swered, “and there’s pudding for dinner on 
Sundays, and you get two pairs of shoes 
every year.” 

“You do,” said Tony, quite cheered by 
such prospects. “And — and they don’t beat 
you or nothing like that?” he asked. 

“No,” said Lenny. “They don’t beat 
you. They only shut you up without any 
supper, like this. And you have a warm 
coat in winter and mittens, and a cap.” 

“Gee!” exclaimed Tony; “then they are 
real good to you after all.” 

“Yes,” answered Lenny dully. “They 
are good to you. But it is not the goodness 
that makes the heart warm and glad like 


Vernon School 


69 


that in our land. When you have been here 
long like I have, you will know.’' 

“Know what?” asked Tony curiously. 

“How lonely it is, how dark, how sad, how 
cold,” said Lenny with a little shiver. 
“They took away my Rosary, my prayer- 
book with its pictures, my medal of the 
Blessed Mother. These were all wrong 
things to have. Miss Melsom said I must 
forget all the things that I had learned in 
my own land, in my own church. I was 
only a little boy and here they would teach 
me what was right and true and good. But 
they do not know,” the little speaker’s voice 
trembled, “they do not know as you will see. 
They take me in a church that is all bare, all 
strange, no lights, no flowers, no cross, no 
good Jesus living on the altar, no Mother 
Mary, no saints, no angels; all these beauti- 
ful things I must forget. Miss Melsom says, 
I must forget. But I can not, I can not,” 


Vernon School 


70 

continued Lenny. “So it is that I feel like 
one shut up in the stillness — in the dark. 
But now that you have come we will talk 
together in our own way. I can tell you all 
that is in my heart. Tony — Miss Melsom 
called you ; that means Antonio, does it not ? 
And my name is Lorenzo, though here they 
make it Lenny. Antonio — Lorenzo ; the 
names go well together.” 

“Yes,” said Tony, “and we will go right 
together too after this. I don’t exactly 
know all you mean, but if you want me for 
a pal — ” Both boys had caught the 
American word in its full meaning from 
their rough associates. 

“Yes, yes,” said Lenny briskly. “That is 
it — pal — friend — brother — you and me.” 

“I’m with you,” said Tony, who vaguely 
felt his little visitor was appealing to him in 
some way for help, for protection. “I don’t 
make out just yet what we’re against here, 
but you and me will stand together sure.” 


Vernon School 


71 


And matters thus settled, Lenny stole 
back into the “sick-room” again, and Tony 
tumbled into the narrow cot that had been 
provided for the bad boys of Vernon School, 
and slept until day. 



CHAPTER V 


THE TWO FRIENDS 

M ISS Melsom no doubt had learned the 
tricks of Friendless Boys on new- 
comers — besides she had heard from Lenny 
the true story of the trouble. So Tony was 
released next morning and given place 
forty-five in the long line room called 
“chapel” where Mr. Barnard read prayers, 
and then down to a breakfast to which Tony, 
with an appetite sharpened by his penitential 
fast, did full justice. 

Then began a life, which to the little 
vagrant of Cobb’s Court, was new and be- 
wildering. Never had old Benito’s boy 
known such comfort. The “Friendless 
Boy’s” little beds, each covered with its 
checkered counterpane, were spotlessly 

73 


74 


The Two Friends 


clean, the “Friendless Boy’s” bowls of 
breakfast porridge most filling. There was 
roast meat twice a week, and, as Lenny had 
said, a pudding on Sundays. 

But there were prayers, which Tony did 
not understand, every morning and evening, 
and lessons which he did not know how to 
learn every day, and long hours of study 
which he spent with his book upside down 
making mischief for all around him. He 
kicked his neighbors’ shins, he flipped 
strings, he threw spit-balls, in short, he was 
a hopeless, roguish little dunce to whom even 
the First Reader was incomprehensible until 
Lenny took him in hand — Lenny, who since 
the friendly pact of Tony’s first night at 
Vernon School, had kept a troubled eye on 
his pal’s deficiencies. 

Out in the playground, Tony held his own 
bravely; he led games with a spirit that few 
of the Friendless Boys could match. He 
could climb and run and wrestle with oppo- 


The Two Friends 


75 


nents far beyond his age and size, but at his 
books he was a hopeless dullard. 

“It is because you do not try,” said Lenny, 
as they sat on a bench in the corner of the 
brick wall. There were no trees about Ver- 
non School, but in this corner a wild vine 
had taken root and was stretching its cling- 
ing tendrils unnoticed into the sunshine. 
Lenny poured a cup of water on the thirst- 
ing leaves every day, and called the nook 
his “garden.” 

“No, I don’t,” said Tony. “What’s the 
good of books? I can see, I can hear, I 
can know things without all this trouble of 
studying.” 

“So can cats and dogs and — and 
monkej^s,” answered Lenny, who had heard 
of Beppo. “But we are not like them, 
Tony. When they die it is the end, there is 
no more of them. But when we die, if we 
are good, we go to heaven.” 

“Benito died,” said Tony, who always re- 


76 


The Two Friends 


membered that gray, stern, strong face with 
a chill of fear. “They put him in the ground 
next day, and Anila’s baby and little Lippo, 
that was run over last summer, always they 
put them in the ground as I put my dead 
kitten, and there is no more of them.” 

“Oh, Tony,” gasped Lenny, in dismay. 
“Don’t you know — don’t you know about 
heaven?” 

“No,” said Tony, shaking his head. 
“What is it?” 

“Nor about God?” continued Lenny, “or 
our 'Lord and His Blessed Mother? Nor 
the saints and angels? Oh, Tony, and you 
from my country, from Italy.” The soft 
eyes were uplifted to Tony’s face in be- 
wildered reproach. 

“I do not know,” answered Tony, stolidly. 
“I was too little when I came here to re- 
member my country, and my mother died 
on the water. Afterwards Benito took me, 
and I forgot all she had told me, sometimes 


The Two Friends 


77 


only it comes to me in dreams — dreams of 
singing ‘Ora pro nobis,’ dreams of lilies, of 
lights shining high in the darkness. Then 
I wake again and forget.” 

“But you must not, you must not,” said 
Lenny, eagerly. “It is the angels who 
bring you those dreams so you will remem- 
ber. They bring them to me or I might for- 
get, too — forget in this strange school, as 
Miss Melsom says, all that I had learned in 
my own land. For I was not very little like 
you when I came away. I was not a bam- 
bino — I was ten years old. I would have 
made my first communion in June.” 

“What is that?” asked Tony. 

“The first communion!” repeated Lenny. 
“Oh, Tony, Tony, it can not be that you 
do not know. It is that you have forgotten 
in this strange land. Even the little bam- 
Wnos in Italy know how the good Jesus lives 
on the altars, how He comes into the little 
children’s hearts on their first communion 


78 


The Two Friends 


day. I had made ready with the rest,” con- 
tinued Lenny, his delicate lip trembling as 
he recalled this unforgotten sorrow. “I had 
been with the others to the church, to the 
class, for long, long months. Padre Fran- 
cisco was our teacher, often he kept me 
longer than the rest, for my new mother 
was American, and did not understand. 
And even my little clothes were ready, all 
white, like the angels, with the red sash of the 
Sacred Heart to wear over my shoulder, and 
the silver cross to pin on my breast. Ajid 
then my father was taken sick, we had to go 
quick away to the mountains to cure him, 
there was no church, no priest near. There 
he died in the snows, and my new mother 
came back to her own land, her own people 
— soon she took another husband, and put 
me here. So it is that I have never made 
my first communion, Tony, and the little 
white clothes and the red sash are still in my 
trunk, and my heart is sad with the long 


The Two Friends 


79 


waiting in this strange school, where I am 
now like the little lamb of which Padre 
Francisco told us that was lost in the snow. 
Padre Francisco used to tell beautiful stories 
to the first communion boys,” continued 
Lenny. ‘‘We were all so little and some- 
times the lessons were hard to study ; then he 
would shut the book and tell us stories, 
which are much easier to remember.” 

“Much easier,” answered Tony, thinking 
of his troubles with books. “If Mr. Var- 
num would tell stories, I’d remember all 
right.” 

“Oh, but he wouldn’t — he couldn’t teU 
stories like Padre Francisco,” said Lenny. 
“He wouldn’t know how. Padre Francisco 
was very old; older, he said, than we little 
ones could count. And he had beqn teach- 
ing people how to be good all his life. Long 
ago he had gone into far off countries where 
they had never heard of the good God, and 
they had put him in a dark prison, under 


80 


The Two Friends 


ground, and beaten him and cut him, and 
would have burned him up if some one had 
not stolen up to him in the night and set him 
free.” 

“Burned him up! Gee!” gasped Tony, 
who, though he had never heard of martyrs, 
felt that a teacher like this must be interest- 
ing indeed. “He told you all this for true?” 

“No, no, he didn’t tell us about that him- 
self. Sister Annunciata did ; she wanted us 
to know how good he was, so we would hsten 
to everything he said. He was so old, and 
so hurt when they had beaten him, that he 
couldn’t stand up very long like Mr. Var- 
num, but he sat in a big chair on the altar 
steps with the children gathering all around 
him at his knees, and at his feet. And he 
would tell us stories about the pictures on 
the windows.” 

“Pictures on the windows,” repeated 
Tony. “I have never seen anything like 
that.” 


The Two Friends 


81 


“Ah, my poor Tony, it is because you 
forget,” said Lenny. “All around the 
churches in our land, are beautiful windows 
with pictures that the sun shines through 
and makes rainbows on the walls. On the 
window by Padre Francisco’s chair there 
was a picture which he told us was the Good 
Shepherd. The Good Shepherd was Our 
Lord, and all around Him were the little 
lambs that are the children He loves and 
watches and tries to keep safe in His care. 
But sometimes they run off, sometimes they 
get lost, sometimes they are stolen away.” 

“Beppo was stolen away once,” said 
Tony, whose heart still yearned for his red- 
capped comrade, “but I hunted until I found 
him hidden in the Vascos’ cellar. And I 
beat Carlo Vasco for it.” Tony clenched 
his little white teeth at the remembrance — 
“beat him until he cried like a girl.” 

“Ah, yes,” sighed Lenny softly, “you can 
fight, you can beat, they could not hold you. 


82 


The Two Friends 


Tony — but I — I think I am like the little 
lamb of which Padre Francisco told us that 
was stolen away. And they took him from 
the green hills and the soft grass and the 
clear flowing waters where the good shep- 
herd had kept him far up into the mountains, 
where it is all ice and snow, and there are 
high, slippery places where little lambs can 
fall, and be lost forever, and, though the sun 
blinds your eyes, it does not warm. I have 
been up in the mountains myself when my 
father was sick,” explained Lenny, “and I 
know. And Padre Francisco said that 
they only gave the little lamb dry grass that 
had no sweetness in it, and water that 
dripped from the melting snow to drink, and 
but for the warm white wool of his fleece, he 
would have died of cold.” 

“And — and didn’t he get back?” asked 
Tony eagerly, as Lenny paused in his story. 

“Yes,” was the low, soft answer. “For . 
the Good Shepherd who is Our Lord had 


The Two Friends 


83 


missed him, and He came for him over the 
ice and the snow and the steep, slippery 
places. And He took the little stolen lamb 
in His arms and carried it home. So I pray 
every night He will come for me.” 

‘‘When — where?” questioned Tony in per- 
plexity. “Tell me more, I have not learned 
things like you, Lenny, I can not read books. 
Mr. Varnum says I have no head, that he 
must put me down in the shop where they 
cut wood.” 

“In the carpenter shop! Oh, Tony!” 

“What do I care,” laughed Tony, lightly. 
“Cutting wood is not bad; I like it better 
than reading books.” 

“But, oh, Tony, Tony, you will not learn 
anything,” said Lenny in dismay. 

“Yes,” said Tony, philosophically. “I 
will learn to cut wood. And you will tell 
me stories, like you have been telling me 
to-day, the stories that you learned in our 
own land. I think it is the English that 


84 


The Two Friends 


does not get into my head, there is no music 
in the words. When you talk to me it is 
like singing, and I understand.” 

“Oh, poor Tony”; Lenny’s dark eyes 
grew softer with sympathy; “if that is it, I 
will try and teach you all I know.” 

And this was the beginning of lessons 
which were not in the Vernon school books, 
and of which Miss Melsom, guiding her 
friendless flock along the straight ways 
marked by Evangelical training, little 
guessed. 

Tony went down cheerfully into the car- 
penter shop, to which hopeless dullards at 
their books were consigned, and his sturdy 
little hands proved both deft and strong at 
“cutting wood.” He continued, however, 
to hold his own in play-room and play- 
ground where Sandy Carr, the “straw- 
headed” bully, who had ruled before his 
coming, soon found the bright-eyed little 
Dago was a rival not to be despised. The 


The Two Friends 


85 


smaller boys flocked to his merry leading; 
Tony’s side won at every game. 

But there was one hour in the day from 
which no sport could claim him, one hour 
that always found him under the straggling 
vine of Lenny’s “garden” learning lessons 
that the Vernon school did not teach. 
Beautiful lessons they were, echoed from the 
lips of th*e saintly old Padre, who taught his 
little soft-eyed pupil so wisely and well. 
Even the babies of that old class upon the 
altar steps had known more than Tony, so 
Lenny had to begin at the very beginning to 
teach the wonderful truths which happier 
little ones learn with their first lisping prayer 
to the good God, their Father in heaven. 

“It is as if I had heard it all before, in 
my dreams,” said Tony; “like the lights and 
the lilies and the ‘Ora pro nobis.’ It is as if 
I were listening to music far away.” 

“My poor Tony! It was your mother 
who taught you all this long ago, and you 


86 


The Two Friends 


have forgotten. Listen and I will teach 
you again, as Padre Francisco taught me.” 

And so Tony learned of the good God 
Who had made him to serve Him on earth 
and be happy forever in heaven, of the lov- 
ing Jesus who came in this world as a little 
child of Bethlehem, of the sweet, sorrowful 
story of Our Lord’s life among men. Per- 
haps if Tony had learned lessons “out of 
books” like other boys he would not have 
listened to his young teacher so eagerly, but 
he had lived like Beppo, without thought or 
care. Together he and his red-capped com- 
rade had eaten and slept, starved and shiv- 
ered, until that day at Saint Barnaby’s, when 
something in the boyish breast seemed to 
stir, to tremble, to waken into life. He be- 
gan to think, to wonder, dimly, vaguely, to 
remember. The lights, the flowers, the 
singing children surely he had seen, heard 
them before. Poor Tony could not know 
that he had been made a child of God by 


The Two Friends 


87 


Baptism, that a pious mother had led her 
little baby boy to the altar gleaming with 
lights and lilies — held him up in her arms 
to see the Corpus Christi procession, wend- 
ing its way over the Italian hills — sung him 
to his baby sleep with the “Ora pro nobis.” 

But now as Lenny taught him under the 
straggling vine, the dream pictures grew 
brighter, the dream music sweeter and fuller 
in his ear, and Tony listened and learned 
more eagerly every day. 

Meantime the summer had gone; there 
had been no vacation at Vernon School. 
Friendless boys had to be busy, or, as Miss 
Melsom declared, she could not keep them 
out of mischief. So there had been lessons 
and prayers and Bible classes, and work in 
the carpenter shop, and cobbler shop where 
the boys learned to make and mend shoes. 
Sometimes Mr. Barnard or Mr. Varnum 
would take them out for a swim in the creek 
that curved below the hill, about a mile from 


88 


The Two Friends 


the school. But usually the days were spent 
behind the high brick wall, and in the hard 
packed play-ground, where the only green 
thing was the vine in Lenny’s “garden” that 
had scrambled up somehow into the sunshine 
and made soft, flickering shadows where he 
and Tony talked. 

“I wonder what those little Dagoes are 
chattering about so earnestly,” said Mr. 
Varnum to Mr. Barnard, as they stood 
watching the boys from the school-room 
window. “Tony is such a hopeless dunce 
at his books that I cannot imagine how that 
little dreamer of a Lenny interests him.” 

A curious smile flickered over Mr. Bar- 
nard’s face. He had traveled abroad in his 
younger days and understood a little Italian. 

“I can tell you,” he said, dryly. “I over- 
heard something of the conversation yester- 
day, Lenny is explaining to Tony the 
Mysteries of thfe Romish faith.” 

“Eh — what — what — what,” exclaimed Mr. 


The Two Friends 


89 


Varnum in horror, “in a school like this? 
It is against all our rules, precedents, prin- 
ciples, Barnard. We must put a stop to 
this sort of thing — at once.” 

“How?” asked Mr. Barnard, quietly. 
“And why, Varnum?” 

“Because — because it’s our business to 
make these children Protestants,” answered 
Mr. Varnum hotly. 

“Exactly,” said the other gentleman 
quietly. “It’s our business, as you say. 
For which we are duly salaried, Varnum. 
And perhaps the Vernon School and its big 
endowment will do it in the end. But with 
faith like Lenny’s lying in a young heart I 
don’t see how you can kill it — without killing 
him.” 

“And you propose to let these Romish 
teachings go on?” asked Mr. Varnum. 

“Why not?” said Mr. Barnard carelessly. 
“We can’t change Lenny, and Tony is a 
rattle-pated little monkey to whom they will 


90 


The Two Friends 


do neither good nor harm. We have him 
safe and sure — for our own. So let them 
chatter on as they please.’’ 


CHAPTER VI 


THE WINTER CHILL 

A nd now the leaves were reddening in 
the woods of Saint Barnaby’s, the 
grapes purpling in the vine slopes, while the 
breeze that swept through the pines was 
bracing but chill. It was October, and 
Saint Martin’s School was in full swing. 
The first pang of return after the jolly sum- 
mer was over, and boys and girls had settled 
down cheerfully to work, at books and black- 
board, maps and charts. Blue-eyed Ted 
was having his first tussle with algebra, and 
Joe was starting in Latin grammar and 
wondering how he could ever get enough in 
his curly head to be a priest. 

Both had found the beginning of things 
rather bewildering and had been kept in this 

91 


92 


The Winter Chill 


October afternoon while Sister Marcella 
cleared matters up for the next day’s work. 
They had stopped to buy peanuts at a corner 
stand when the sound of a street organ 
wheezing out “Marching Through Georgia” 
attracted their attention to a monkey that 
the old Italian grinder was trying to jerk 
into liveliness. A forlorn monkey in tat- 
tered jacket and feathered cap, who crept on 
all fours along the sidewalk, as if too feeble 
to stand up on his shriveled little legs. 

“Look out there, you’re hurting that poor 
little fellow,” blurted out warm-hearted Ted, 
as a fierce pull of the organ grinder’s string 
sent the luckless little creature rolling on its 
side. 

“Vot do I care for hurt,” muttered the 
man sullenly. “Only three days ago I pay 
five dollar for that monkey and he no good. 
He will not dance, he will not climb, he will 
not beg, he will do nosing — nosing. I think 
I keel him to-night for his skin.” 


The Winter Chill 


93 


A shiver ran through the hapless victim, 
as if he heard the murderous threat. He sat 
up and surveyed the pitying boys with dull, 
bleared eyes. The wizened little face was 
sunken and wrinkled like that of an old man, 
but a white scar stood out on it conspicu- 
ously. 

“Gee!” gasped Ted, “if it ain’t Tony’s 
Beppo! I know him by that mark on his 
face. Hallo, Beppo, old chap! Beppo! 
Beppo!” 

The little red-capped figure started up to 
its feet at the word, but his master pulled 
him back roughly. “He is not Beppo,” 
said the man frowning; “his name is 
Jock.” 

“It isn’t,” said Ted, stirred into righteous 
wrath at the piteous plight of the merry 
little playmate of Saint Martin’s picnic. 
“He is Beppo, and he belongs to a black- 
eyed boy named Tony, who tattooed that 
marked on his face so he couldn’t be stolen 


94 


The Winter Chill 


away. I don’t believe you have any right 
to him at all.” 

“I keel him to-night all the same,” de- 
clared the organ grinder, preparing to 
move away. ‘‘I get one dollar for his skin 
that makes fine lady’s purse. He good for 
nosing else.” 

“Gee! but you’re an awful cruel man.” 
Ted cast a parting glance at the doomed 
Beppo, who perched on the organ, now made 
an effort to recall his former tricks by pull- 
ing off his cap in a farewell bow, and a reck- 
less resolve flashed into the boyish heart and 
head. “I will pay you a dollar for him my- 
self.” 

“Eh!” said the wily Italian, pricking up 
his ears. 

“Ted!” exclaimed the astonished Joe at 
his side. 

“I will,” declared Ted stoutly. “I’ve got 
a dollar in my pocket now.” 


The Winter Chill 


95 


“But it’s for a new baseball,” warned Joe, 
“and you want one bad, Ted.” 

“What if I do?” blurted out Ted desper- 
ately. “I can’t let that man skin Tony’s 
monkey. Here’s your dollar,” and Ted 
passed over his crisp, treasured bill. “Now 
give me Beppo and — and I’ll take him 
home.” 

“Ted Marvin!” cried Joe in dismay. 
“What are you going to do with a half dead 
monkey?” 

“Cure him,” laughed Ted, cuddling up 
poor wizened httle Beppo in his arms. 
“Just you wait a week and see.” 

For there was a shed in the Marvin’s back 
yard, where already rabbits, guinea-pigs, 
pigeons, and white mice had been domiciled, 
and Ted had a plump, pretty little mother 
who knew that boys must be boys, and 
didn’t mind. All that he had been through 
since Tony’s departure, Beppo, of course. 


96 


The Winter Chill 


couldn’t tell, but that the world had gone 
hard with him every one could plainly see. 
But in a week, as Ted had promised Joe, he 
was as lively a monkey as any one could 
wish. Dressed in a spick and span new 
suit, made by Ted’s sister, with a jaunty 
cap on his head, his withered little face 
rounded out by good feeding, and a corner 
of the shed fitted up for his special accommo- 
dation, the Marvin monkey was soon the 
central attraction of the neighborhood. 

Yet sometimes in the midst of all this new 
luxury, when the children were gathered de- 
lightedly around him watching his antics, 
and he drilled and marched, and played 
dead again, at his new master’s command, 
Beppo would pause, scratch his head 
thoughtfully, and look around him with 
troubled eyes. 

“He is thinking about Tony,” Ted would 
explain to the audience. “When he looks 


The Winter Chill 


97 


like that he is remembering Tony and won- 
dering where he is.” 

“Doesn’t anybody know?” asked a listener 
curiously. 

“No,” answered Ted. “You see we just 
picked him up on the wharf that day with- 
out knowing anything about him. My! he 
was a queer little tough, and couldn’t he put 
in the ice cream and cake? When I talked 
to him about church and the Forty Hours, 
and all that, he didn’t understand any more 
than Beppo himself. Father John says he 
promised to come to Saint Martin’s and 
sing, but he has never showed up. When I 
told Father John about Beppo he looked 
real sad. ‘You found Beppo,’ he said, now 
look out for his little master; pray that Our 
Dear Lord may take care of Tony, the poor 
little lost lamb.’ ” 

So the bright days of autumn passed, the 
nuts had rattled down from the trees and the 


98 


The Winter Chill 


red apples had been gathered. Thanksgiv- 
ing, with its big football games between 
Saint Martin’s and Saint Catherine’s, was 
gone, and in the homes and schools, where 
happy children gathered, the boys and girls 
were beginning to think and plan for the 
glad Christmas that was coming on. Al- 
ready the boy choir of Saint Martin’s was 
practicing Glorias and Alleluias for the 
Midnight Mass, while in the shed of the 
Marvin yard, a wonderful piece of work was 
going on that required several tool chests, 
two scroll saws, and the combined efforts of 
Sister Marcella’s class. 

A new prie-dieu for Father John to use 
after Mass ! True, there was one already in 
Saint Martin’s sanctuary, but it was old and 
worn, and had been used for three or four 
generations of pastors, and, as the altar boys 
observed, was beginning to creak ominously 
under Father John’s growing weight. Be- 
sides it was a mere bought affair after all. 


The Winter Chill 


99 


while this was to be a work of art, hand- 
made every inch, wrought into all the curves 
and curlycues that scroll saws can produce, 
with book shelf and cross, and cushions em- 
broidered by Sister Marcella’s own skillful 
fingers. 

“And — it will be the work of his own 
boys,” as Sister Marcella said brightly, 
“which to Father John will be best of all.” 


But in the School for Friendless Boys 
there was little preparation or expectant 
thrill. There would be turkey and mince 
pie for dinner, as Tony learned from his 
mates, and the boys would get new shoes and 
mittens — the winter coats had been given out 
at Thanksgiving, as the rules decreed. 

But that was all that Christmas meant at 
Vernon School. It brought no warmth, no 
gladness, no love there, no thought of the 
dear Christ-child and his Blessed Mother, of 
the singing angels, the watching shepherds. 


100 


The Winter Chill 


and the guiding star. True, Miss Melsom 
read about these beautiful things in the Bible 
class every Sunday evening, but the chapel 
was cold, and the Friendless Boys kicked 
each other under the benches, for Miss Mel- 
som’s “reading” did not make the sweet 
story of Bethlehem seem real and true at all. 
Indeed, little Tom Jarvis got things so 
mixed that he told Tony that Santa Claus 
was born on Christmas day. 

“They don’t understand,” said Lenny 
sadly. “All the very little ones in my 
country know about the crib and the stable 
and the Blessed Mother. But here, the 
good Jesus is like a shadow far away. He 
does not live on the altar. He does not come 
into the children’s hearts in first communion. 
It is all cold and strange, like the mountains 
where we took my father to die. I think 
maybe if the good Jesus had come to him. 
He would have made him well, but there 
was no priest, no church near. My new 


The Winter Chill 


101 


mother, who was not a Catholic, did not care. 
So I think sometimes I will die here.” 

“Pooh!” said Tony roughly, for the word 
sent a pain to his heart he did not like. 
“You talk foolish, Lenny, you’re a boy, and 
boys don’t die only babies and old men like 
Benito.” 

“Yes, boys die, too,” continued Lenny. 
“I had a brother who died when he was eight 
years old. My father told me about him, 
and there was Filippo Rossi, who was in 
Padre Francisco’s class with me. We were 
playing together when the fever seized him 
and the doctors could do nothing to cure it.” 

“And did he die, too?” asked Tony, some- 
what dismayed by such gloomy personal 
experiences. 

“No,” said Lenny softly. “But every 
one thought he would. His mother came 
crying to Padre Francisco that Filippo was 
dying fast, the doctor said he would not live 
another night. And Padre Francisco told 


102 


The Winter Chill 


her that if it was the good God’s will to take 
Filippo to heaven she must give him up. 
And when she cried the more, for Filippo 
was the only child she had, he talked to her 
soft and kind about the good Jesus and how 
he had raised the poor widow’s son to life, 
and perhaps if He came to Filippo He 
would cure him. And then he told us all to 
get candles from Sister Annunciata so that 
we could walk in procession, for Filippo had 
begged to make his first communion before 
he died. I walked beside Padre Francisco 
and tinkled the little bell as they do in my 
country when the good Jesus comes to the 
sick and dying. It was night, and the stars 
were shining up in the sky, and other stars 
seemed to glimmer out in the darkness as 
the people ran to put candles in their win- 
dows and fell on their knees as the good 
Jesus passed.” 

“And — and did He make Filippo well?” 
interrupted Tony eagerly. 


The Winter Chill 


103 


“Yes,” answered Lenny, his soft eyes 
shining. “He made Filippo well; the fever 
left him that night. The doctors said many 
big words about it, but Filippo and his 
mother knew. It was the good Jesus Who 
came to him in Holy Communion and made 
him well.” 

And the look in Lenny’s uplifted eyes 
carried conviction that sank deep into his 
listener’s heart. 

For as the days shortened and the cold 
grew more bitter, and the winter winds 
whistled around the School for Friendless 
Boys, Lenny seemed to droop like a flower 
touched by the frost. 

Tony had a double share of morning por- 
ridge and Sunday pudding, for Lenny often 
pushed his untasted portion over to his pal, 
while the starry eyes grew brighter, and the 
dehcate cheek paler every day. The white 
lamb was pining on the mountain top far 
from Shepherd and fold. 


V, 


CHAPTER VII 

A CHRISTMAS EVE 

C HRISTMAS Eve had come— a Christmas 
Eve that promised fine traveling for 
Santa Claus and his reindeer team. But 
for mere mortals it was hard journeying 
through this wintry world of ice and snow. 
Roads were blocked, fences and hedgerows 
buried, barns and stables banked in heavy 
drifts. / 

The School for Friendless Boys stood like 
a bare bleak fortress in a No Man’s Land of 
dazzling white. And gray clouds looming 
up in the wintry twilight told that King 
Winter had not done his worst. There were 
fiercer attacks to come. Even within the 
brick walls of Vernon School it was very 
cold. The boys huddled around the black 
pipes that were the school’s substitute for 

105 


106 


A Christmas Eve 


Christmas fires, shoving and struggling for 
place. Unselfishness was not among the 
lessons taught in Vernon School; one of the 
first things a Friendless Boy learned was to 
push for himself. Tony had learned with 
the rest, but, though there was an icy chill 
in his heart, he was not pushing to-day. He 
was standing aside, his hands thrust in his 
pocket, his eyes wide and dark with be- 
wilderment and dismay. For the boys were 
talking of Lenny — of the little pal who had 
disappeared three days ago, carried off by 
Miss Melsom to some region beyond his 
reach, Lenny who as the boys were saying 
now was very sick indeed — with pneumonia, 
a mysterious disease of which Tony had 
never heard. 

“And he is going to ‘croak,’ ” said Sandy 
Carr, who prided himself on being up in the 
latest street slang. 

“ ‘Croak!’ What is that?” asked Tony 
anxiously. 


A Christmas Eve 107 

“Die !” Sandy flung the word heartlessly 
at his wide-eyed listener. 

“Die!” echoed half a dozen voices breath- 
lessly, while Tony grew suddenly white and 
still. 

“Yes,” continued Sandy with the surety 
of private information. “I heard Mr. Bar- 
nard and Mr. Varnum talking about him. 
They said he was going to die, because he 
was a dago and hadn’t the strength to pull 
through.” 

“That is not true!” burst forth Tony in 
passionate defense, but even as he spoke he 
remembered how pale and weak Lenny had 
grown of late, how he had snuggled on the 
corner benches, not caring to run or play. 

“Oh, I’m a liar, am I?” said Sandy with 
a malevolent glance at Lenny’s ‘pal.’ 
“Then I ain’t going to say no more.” 

“Oh, yes, yes,” went up an eager chorus. 
“Tell us Sandy. What else did Mr. Bar- 
nard say? Is it anything catching? Will 


108 


A Christmas Eve 


we all get it?’’ faltered weaker voices in the 
crowd. 

“Naw,” answered Sandy with the scoff of 
superior wisdom. “You needn’t sheer. 
And Lenny wouldn’t die if he wasn’t so 
peaking and puny. Mr. Barnard said he’d 
been pining ever since he came to Vernon 
School, like he was homesick and lost. And 
he is talking that way now, as if he were 
looking for some one he can’t find. Miss 
Melsom had to pin the blankets down to 
keep him in bed. Oh, you are going to die 
for sure when you get as bad as that.” 

“My father tried to jump out of the win- 
dow,” piped a small boy in the bunch. 

“I had a brother shot dead in the street,” 
boasted another. 

Then followed a flood of grisly remem- 
brances, for family tragedies are apt to 
darken the early lives of Friendless Boys, 
and the startling interest of the hour 
loosened their tongues, as with a new sense 


A Christmas Eve 


109 


of comradeship they crowded together in the 
gathering darkness. 

Only Tony had nothing to say. There 
was a queer choking in his throat that would 
not let him speak. Lenny was going to 
DIE ! Lenny, his little pal, his little chum. 
Lenny whose voice was like music, and who 
had taught him so many beautiful things he 
could not learn in books — beautiful things 
that came back to him now, as turning away 
from the noisy chatter that hurt him, he 
stood apart by a big window and looked out 
into the white winter wastes without. How 
cold they seemed in the deepening dusk, how 
wide, how bare ; even the dead vine of 
Lenny’s garden was only a tangled thread 
of snow. It was like the mountainside of 
Padre Francisco’s story, where the stolen 
lamb so nearly perished for warmth and 
food and light, until the good Shepherd 
came to find him, the good Shepherd who 
was the dear Jesus of Whom Lenny had 


110 


A Christmas Eve 


talked so much. The same Jesus Who had 
raised the rich man’s daughter, the poor 
widow’s son, to life. Who had cured the 
sick and the bhnd and the lame. Who loved 
little children and blessed them, and came 
into their hearts. Oh, if He would come to 
save and cure Lenny now. 

Tony was thinking this evening, thinking 
as he had never thought before, for in all 
these months with Lenny he had learned the 
greatest of all lessons — love ! He had 
never known love until now, for he had no 
clear remembrance of his soft-eyed mother, 
but Lenny, his gentle little pal, had wakened 
something in his boyish heart that was stir- 
ring his whole young being into fierce life 
and pain. Death was a terrible thing to 
Tony — he had not yet learned to think of it 
as the dim gateway through which white- 
winged angels guide God’s little ones to 
their brighter, more beautiful home, with 
Him. He only recalled the gray, stony face 


A Christmas Eve 


111 


of old Benito, Carlotta who had been 
crushed by the car, Lucina’s little baby 
whom they had put in a dark hole in the 
ground last June. “Lenny must not die 
like these,” thought Tony with a cold creep 
in his veins ; he must get well, as Filippo had 
done, in his own sunny land. The doctors 
could do nothing for Filippo, it was the good 
Jesus Who had come and cured him, so He 
would cure Lenny, Tony knew. 

The sharp tones of Miss Melsom came 
from the doorway — “There must be no 
romping, no noise, this evening, children. 
Lenny Secchi must be kept quiet. He is 
very ill ; the doctors think he is dying.” 

At the awful word, desperate resolve 
leaped up in Tony’s heart; he followed Miss 
Melsom into the hall where a dim light was 
burning. The matron of Vernon School 
was not in a good humor with the F riendless 
Boys this evening. She had been counting 
on a Christmas visit to a married sister, but 


112 


A Christmas Eve 


Lenny’s illness had broken up all her plans. 
She had paid thirty dollars for a new suit, 
which she would not need, for the hoy was 
likely to die — and — there would be no chance 
of her visit until after the funeral. And 
more irritating even than all this, was the 
way Lenny had been praying and talking in 
his delirium. 

The doctor, who was also a ruling elder 
in her church, had been shocked, and had 
intimated to “Sister Melsom” that she must 
have been sorely remiss in Christian watch- 
fulness to have allowed a child of Vernon 
School to remain in the errors of Rome. 
“If there were any more of the same mind, I 
should feel it my DUTY” — ^the doctor laid 
stern emphasis on the word — “to report to 
the trustees at once.” 

Miss Melsom had bitten her lips to keep 
in a rather tart reply, and was still feeling 
the sting of the doctor’s rebuke when Tony 
confronted her, a breathless little Tony, 


A Christmas Eve 


113 


wide-eyed and desperate. “Miss Melson,” 
the young voice was choked and trembling, 
“please Miss Melsom, don’t — don’t let 
Lenny die.” 

“How can I help it, child?” asked the lady 
sharply. 

“Oh, yes, you can, you can. Miss Melsom. 
Lenny has told me. He says you don’t 
know all these beautiful things here — like 
they know in his land, his church.” 

“His land! His church!” Miss Melsom 
thought of the doctor, and her tone grew 
very sharp now. “What are you talking 
about, boy?” 

And then Tony burst forth in breathless 
explanation. Only dimly, vaguely as yet 
did he understand all his little pal’s teach- 
ings, but he made the best of what he knew. 
“Padre Francisco, Filippo, whom the good 
Jesus had cured, the rich man’s daughter, 
the poor widow’s son” — Tony mingled them 
all in his passionate appeal. “So will the 


114 


A Christmas Eve 


good Jesus come and cure Lenny who is 
like the little lamb stolen away to the moun- 
tain, so the good Jesus Who lives on the 
altar with the lights, will come if you send 
to the priest.” 

“The priest!” Miss Melsom, who had 
been staring impatiently at the reckless 
little speaker, caught at that word and her 
cold bewilderment blazed into a sudden fury 
of comprehension. “A priest! This little 
fool! This little rattle-pate who could not 
be taught to read, this protege of an old 
atheist who had neither church nor creed, 
had been learning strange lessons indeed at 
Vernon School. A priest! If the doctor 
should hear of this! Tony was asking for 
a priest for the dying boy. This was lack 
of Christian watchfulness indeed! The 
very whisper of such a thing would cost her 
— her place, her salary, her reputation, as 
matron of Vernon School. 

And all the suppressed irritability of the 


A Christmas Eve 


115 


day broke out into fierce wrath against the 
luckless Tony, the friendless little waif who 
had been troublesome from the first. She 
caught him by the shoulder, hand and voice 
shaking with rage. 

‘'Hush, you little fool, hush — never let me 
hear you say ‘priest’ in this house, never let 
me hear any of this Romish talk again. If 
I do, you will be turned out, do your under- 
stand, turned out to beg, to freeze, to starve, 
in the winter snow.” 

Miss Melsom’s tone had the cold ring of 
steel, but the passion of his own Southland 
was aflame in Tony’s breast to-night, and 
he burst out in reckless defiance : 

“I don’t care — I don’t care,” he said. 
“You’re a bad, bad woman, you have no 
kindness in your heart, or you would let the 
good Jesus come — and cure Lenny. This 
place is like the cold mountain where the 
robbers take the stolen lambs as Padre Fran- 
cisco said. I am not like you, my heart is 


116 


A Christmas Eve 


warm, I would beg, I would freeze, I would 
starve, I would die to save Lenny.” 

“Try it then,” panted Miss Melsom, quite 
breathless with fury now. “Try what being 
turned out of Vernon Hall means, you 
graceless little wretch.” And flinging open 
the door nearby, she thrust Tony out into 
the gathering darkness of the cold winter 
night. 

“I’m just giving the little fool a scare,” 
she explained to Mr. Barnard who was pass- 
ing by. “I never heard such wild talk from 
a ten-year-old child before. Something had 
to be done with him.” 

“What is the trouble?” asked Mr. Bar- 
nard. “Upset, I suppose, about his little 
dago chum?” 

“Worse than that,” answered Miss Mel- 
som. “You can’t get Romish notions out 
of their heads. Mrs. Jennings told me this 
boy was quite free from them, had been in 
the care of an old atheist, without church or 


A Christmas Eve 117 

creed, and here he is begging me to send for 
a priest!” 

“A priest — in Vernon School! It would 
be — an odd combination I agree,” was the 
answer. “Does the poor little kid upstairs 
want one?” 

“He is too far gone to want anything 
now,” evaded the lady. “And where this 
little fool of a Tony got such notions I can 
not say. It’s in the blood, I suppose, the 
hot Italian blood.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Barnard. “But 
we’ve given that blood time enough to cool 
now. It’s rather frigid weather for such 
stern discipline, don’t you think so? Sup- 
pose we let him in.” 

“No,” said Miss Melsom harshly. “Not 
until he cries out to us, which he will do in a 
few minutes. The cold and dark will soon 
frighten him. Then you can let him in.” 

And she turned away — for her reluctant 
watch in Lenny’s sick-room. 


118 


A Christmas Eve 


Mr. Barnard waited as she had said, for 
the rules of Vernon School were strict, and 
in matters of discipline Miss Melsom’s au- 
thority was supreme. And Tony was a 
tough little chap who could stand the cold, 
he knew. Five — ten — fifteen minutes he 
waited, and still there was no weakening cry 
from without. Then he flung open the door 
— “Tony,” he called — “Tony” — a wild swirl 
of snow in his face was the only answer. 
All without was a blinding blur of darkness 
and storm. And Tony was gone. 


CHAPTER VIII 

TH^; LOST LAMB 

F or a moment, as the heavy door of 
Vernon School shut upon him, Tony 
had weakened. He was only ten years old, 
and ten years is not an heroic age. 

For a moment, as he heard the key turn 
in the lock, childish fright seized him ; it was 
so icy cold, so dark, already the first flakes 
of the gathering storm were beginning to 
fall. He was turned out from all that he 
knew of shelter and home, turned out to 
freeze, to die, perhaps, in the wintry night. 

The cry for pity, for mercy, was on his 
lips, his sturdy little hand was raised for the 
appealing knock that would call for admis- 
sion, when of a sudden he paused, held 

119 


120 


The Lost Lamb 


breathless by some strange thrill in his 
boyish heart, some stir in his blood that sent 
it leaping through his veins. 

The doors of Vernon Hall were shut 
against him, but he was free — free — free to 
go where and how he willed, free to brave 
peril and darkness and storm, to save Lenny, 
free to speed away over the wide snowy 
wastes and find Shepherd and fold. 

His lifted hand dropped, the frightened 
cry died upon his lips, his dark eyes flashed 
with sudden resolve. He would brave night 
and storm and icy cold to find help for his 
little pal, his friend, his brother, the help 
that the simple faith Lenny had kindled in 
his childish heart taught him would not fail. 
Some light would shine — some star would 
guide him, some white-winged angel would 
show him the way. For so Lenny in sweet 
story and legend had told him, the good God 
always helped those who turned to Him in 
their troubles and asked His pitying care. 


The Lost Lamb 


121 


Clasping his sturdy little hands Tony 
prayed a breathless, childish prayer: 

“Show me the way through the storm and 
darkness, good Jesus, show me the way so 
that You may come and cure Lenny and he 
will not die.” And then turning his back 
on home and shelter he plunged boldly out 
into the wintry night — the driving snow, 
scrambling over the brick wall by the aid of 
the tangled vine in the corner, breaking his 
way through the white drifts banked below, 
scurrying on with bent head and sturdy 
limbs hardened by the rough life at Cobb’s 
Court, through the growing fury of the 
storm. 

For a while he kept the road that, blurred 
and blank though it was, stretched as he 
knew to the trolley that would take him (if 
he could beg a ride) to the great city nearby. 
Once there he would ask for Saint Martin’s, 
the church of which Ted had talked so 
much, and Father John, who had been so 


122 


The Lost Lamb 


kind to him on the picnic, and who would 
be sorry for Lenny, — Lenny who was dying, 
like the little white lamb on the mountain; 
Lenny whom only Jesus, the Good Shep- 
herd, could cure and save. And at the 
thought, Tony strove to quicken his 
struggling steps and plunged on more des- 
perately through the wild, swirling drive of 
the snow. It beat into his face, it blinded 
his eyes, it swelled higher and higher drifts 
as he struggled manfully on, while blurring 
clouds seemed to thicken around him; the 
road vanished utterly and he found himself 
tangled in a white, thorny hedge that barred 
his way. 

He fought through the snowy, briary 
branches that muffled as they were tore at 
him viciously, he came out breathless on the 
other side and stumbled on, where — he did 
not know; under the spreading boughs of 
tall trees that rose like sheeted ghosts out of 
the darkness, across blank open spaces where 


The Lost Lamb 


123 


the snow swept and swirled before the wind, 
through drifts in which he floundered and 
staggered, and at last broke down. He was 
lost, he reahzed, as he stumbled helplessly 
into a maze of snow-bent boughs, and his 
bold young heart chilled at the thought, — 
perhaps he would die, too, die in this awful 
darkness of night and storm — die — lost — 
buried under the snow. Luckily he had on 
the heavy Thanksgiving coat which Miss 
Melsom had allowed her charges to wear this 
evening, as the black pipes in the playroom 
were not giving forth sufficient heat to keep 
even Friendless Boys warm. And his reck- 
less flight through the storm had kept his 
blood aglow. But now — now that he had 
come to a standstill, deadly fear assailed him. 
Oh, why had he come? Why had he ven- 
tured out on this wild search for the Good 
Shepherd, Whom he could never And. 

Oh, where was the good God Whom 
Lenny had told him took care of the children 


124 


The Lost Lamb 


who asked His help? Where were the sing- 
ing angels and the guiding star of Christ- 
mas night? Was it all like the lights and 
lilies, only a dream? For Tony could go no 
farther, his sturdy heart and limbs had given 
way. He pressed forward under the pine 
branches that bent snow-laden to the ground 
and, sinking exhausted in their friendly 
shelter to wait for the day — fell asleep. 

It would have been a long, long sleep 
from which there would have been no earthly 
awakening for the young wanderer, for the 
icy cold of the winter night was numbing 
him into a deadly torpor, when a clear, sweet 
sound roused him into half-consciousness. 

Bells ! His music-loving ear caught their 
silvery notes. Louder and sweeter they 
pealed, stirring his slowing pulse — calling — 
waking him. Bells — bells! He listened 
dreamily as he lay under the pine boughs, 
the chill of death creeping over heart and 
brain. 


The Lost Lamb 


125 


Bells! Deep-toned bells, that could not 
be far away. Thought and memory began 
to quicken — the blood to flow through 
Tony’s numbing hmbs. He started up 
from his snowy pillow to listen. Bells in- 
deed! Chiming out clear and sweet in the 
darkness, very, very near. He pushed aside 
the snow-laden pine boughs and looked out 
around him. It was storming still, the snow 
was sweeping, driving, against his shelter, 
but — but he caught his breath, there just 
beyond him in the blackness of the winter 
night, the winter storm — shone the star of 
which Lenny had told him, the Christmas 
Star, the good God had sent to guide him on 
his way. 

He tried to rise, but his stiffening limbs 
would not hold him ; twice he fell in a hope- 
lessness that would have daunted a weaker 
spirit, but the triple flame of Faith and 
Hope and Love that Lenny had kindled in 
his heart was glowing in his blood, warming 


126 


The Lost Lamb 


him into life and strength now. He 
struggled up to his hands and knees, and 
crept on all fours like the lost lamb he was, to 
the guiding light. The bells that had 
roused him had ceased their music now, there 
was only the Star — the Star that but a 
trembling gleam at first grew brighter and 
brighter each moment. 

Creeping, until he could trust himself to 
walk, staggering to his feet where the drifts 
blocked his way, stumbling, falling, rising 
again, Tony kept on, cheered by the radiant 
beacon before him. And now — now his 
heart leaped indeed, for through the midnight 
darkness came the sound of sweet voices 
singing — singing as Lenny had told him the 
angels sung on Christmas night — “Gloria in 
Excelsis Deo,” swelled the glad refrain — 
“Gloria, Gloria!” 

And the light flamed into a wider radiance 
and Tony stumbled into the open doorway 
of a beautiful chapel, where above the 


The Lost Lamb 


127 


dazzling altar smiled the Good Shepherd 
holding the stray lamb to His breast. It 
was an unusual privilege for the good Sisters 
of Bon Secours to have Midnight Mass. 
Priests were in such demand in the great 
parishes of the neighboring city that it was 
rarely one could be spared to this suburban 
convent on the Holy Night. But a visitor 
in the city, an old friend of Mother Borro- 
meo’s, had at her request come this year to 
say the Midnight Mass for the Sisters and 
such of the faithful in the neighborhood as 
might be willing to brave the winter storm. 

So it was that convent chimes had been 
rung, and the wide doors of the chapel flung 
open and light and music had poured forth 
into the Christmas night. 

Father Laurence (for so Mother Borro- 
meo’s friend had Americanized his Italian 
name) had found it all very beautiful. 
Tender recollections of Christmas nights in 
his own land had crowded upon him, and 


128 


The Lost Lamb 


names of the loved and lost, breathed in his 
Memento, were still echoing in his heart as 
he knelt to make his Thanksgiving when 
Httle Sister Lucina, the Sacristan, broke in 
excitedly upon his devotions : 

‘‘Oh, Father, come — come, please — there 
is a half frozen little boy fainting, dying, I 
am afraid, in the chapel. He must have 
strayed in from the storm. I found him 
crouching in the last pew when I went to 
lock the doors, a poor little fellow not more 
than ten years old.” 

“Ten years old!” echoed the priest in a 
moved voice; “and out on a night like this! 
Let me see to him at once.” And hurrying 
down to the chapel door. Father Laurence 
found the little wanderer already in tender 
care. Mother Borromeo was supporting 
him in her arms. Sister Lucina was putting 
brandy to his lips. Sister Martina chafing his 
hands ’and feet. Under these kindly minis- 


The Lost Lamb 


129 


trations Tony was already recovering sense 
and speech. Father Laurence laid a prac- 
ticed hand on his pulse and smiled reassur- 
ance on the anxious group. “Nothing very 
wrong here. The sudden heat overcame 
him for a moment; he is half frozen, poor 
little chap. Give him something warm to 
drink and put him to bed.” 

“No,” gasped Tony. “No — I can’t go to 
bed. I’ve come”-phe fixed his black eyes on 
Father Laurence’s priestly robes, “for you 
— for a priest. Lenny Secchi is dying at 
Vernon School.” 

“Secchi, Lenny Secchi, did you say?” 
asked Father Laurence in a startled tone. 
“What do you mean boy? Speak out in 
God’s name. I am Father Lorenzo Secchi, 
and I have a nephew of the same name.” 

“Yes — yes, I know.” Tony was pre- 
pared for all sorts of wonders this wonderful 
night. “He told me about you, he told me 


130 


The Lost Lamb 


he had an uncle somewhere who was a priest. 
They stole him off like the white lamb in 
Father Francisco’s story and they’ve got 
him in Vernon School, and he is dreadful 
sick. He will die unless the good Jesus 
comes to him and cures him like He cured 
Filippo. I told Miss Melsom so, I told her 
to send for a priest and she got mad and 
put me out in the snow. And then I prayed 
that the good God would show me the way, 
and I ran until I couldn’t run any longer 
through the storm, and I fell down under 
the trees and went to sleep. And the bells 
woke me and I saw what I thought was the 
Christmas Star and I heard the singing — 
and I found my way here.” 

‘‘My God, can this be true,” murmured 
the priest, as Tony concluded his gasping 
story. “I have been searching for my 
brother’s child for years. I believed his 
stepmother was keeping him out of my care, 
my reach. Is there such a school as this of 


The Lost Lamb 


131 


which the boy speaks, where they might have 
stolen — hidden my poor little lamb?” 

“Yes,” said Mother Borromeo. “There 
is a ‘Vernon School for Friendless Boys’ 
supported by an ‘Evangelical Mission’ on 
the Fellon Road, eight or ten miles away.” 

“And this child came all that distance 
through the storm, the darkness, the icy 
cold,” said Father Laurence in a shaking 
voice. “My dear, brave boy — why — be- 
cause you are Italian like Lenny?” 

“No, no, no — not for that,” answered 
Tony quickly. “Pietro — Umbelto, were 
Italians, too, I did not care if they died at 
all. Lenny is my friend — my pal — almost 
my brother. He has told me all the beauti- 
ful things that Father Francisco told him. 
My heart hurt with its love for him. So I 
ran through the night and the storm, that 
the good Jesus might come to him, and cure 
him and not let him die.” 

“And He will. He will,” said Father 


132 


The Lost Lamb 


Laurence. And Mother Borromeo’s eyes 
grew dim as she stroked Tony’s dark curls, 
still stiff with the frozen snow. 

“Vernon School may shut its doors to the 
priest, but Lorenzo Secchi, the uncle, has a 
guardian’s papers — a guardian’s right to ad- 
mittance. So go to sleep in peace, my dear 
boy, your brave work is done. And the 
good Jesus will bless you and save and cure 
Lenny and keep you both in His blessed 
fold. His own dear lambs forevermore.” 


CHAPTER IX 


SAFE IN THE FOLD 

I T was a wonderful Christmas day to 
which Tony woke next morning after 
being dosed with something sweet and spicy 
and hot and put to bed as F ather Laurence 
(or to give him his rightful Italian name, 
Father Lorenzo) had advised. 

The storm was over. The whole world 
was robed as if for some first communion 
morn in spotless white ; every tree and shrub 
was laden with snow wreaths and snow blos- 
soms, and the sun was shining in dazzling 
radiance over all, shining as if it never had 
known — cloud or shadow or night. And 
the warm blood was coursing through Tony’s 
chilled veins and his stiffened limbs were soft 
and supple again, and his cheeks that had 

133 


134 


Safe in the Fold 


looked so deadly pale last night were rosy 
with health and life. And such a breakfast 
as pretty little Sister Martina brought to him 
as soon as he was fairly awake. Hot toast 
and creamy coffee, and a soft boiled egg in a 
flowered cup, and best of all a big juicy 
Christmas orange that looked as if it had 
just dropped from the tree. 

And while he was eating his breakfast and 
staring ’round at the dainty little room, with 
its crucifix and Madonna, and wondering 
where he was and how he had got here, and 
what strange thing was going to happen to 
him next. Sister Martina answered the ques- 
tioning look in his bewildered eyes. She 
told him that Father Lorenzo, who was 
Lenny’s own uncle and had been made his 
legal guardian by his father’s last will, had 
been looking for his little charge for two 
long years, ever since Lenny’s stepmother, 
who was bitterly prejudiced against her late 
husband’s family, had put the boy in the 


Safe in the Fold 


135 


Vernon School. And but for Tony’s strug- 
gle through the storm last night, Lenny 
never would have been found. 

“But now — now,” Sister Martina’s soft 
eyes brightened, “now the good God who 
had guided Tony, had made all things right. 
Father Lorenzo had gone to Vernon School 
with letters proving his claim to Lenny, let- 
ters that gained him admission against all 
Miss Melsom could do or say. And he had 
found his poor little boy very ill indeed. 
And on the first dawn of this beautiful 
Chrismas Lenny had received his Commun- 
ion from his dear uncle’s hand.” 

Sister Martina did not know how Mr. 
Barnard had stood by Father Lorenzo 
against all the rules of Vernon School; how 
he had brought candles to the little table by 
Lenny’s bedside, and put the red sash over 
his shoulder and pinned the medal to his 
breast, as the boy he beheved dying asked. 
So in the gray light of the Christmas dawn- 


136 


Safe in the Fold 


ing the good Jesus had come to His little 
lamb as Lenny had so long and lovingly 
prayed. 

“And has He cured him?” asked Tony 
breathlessly. “Has He made Lenny 
well?” 

“We hope so, we think so,” answered Sis- 
ter Martina gently; “but we do not know 
yet. Whether it be heaven or earth, all is 
well with the dear child now. ‘He is happy 
as an angel,’ is the message Father Lorenzo 
has just sent us, and you must be happy, too, 
this beautiful Christmas day.” 

And as our own Tony was only ten years 
old, with the sunny Italian nature that does 
not look for clouds and shadows, he pro- 
ceeded to take Sister Martina’s advice. 
With the good Sisters, full of tender interest 
in their little guest, questioning and encour- 
aging him, Tony began to talk. His new 
friends soon drew from him his pitiful little 
story. They heard of Vernon School, and 


Safe in the Fold 


137 


Miss Melsom, of Lenny and his sweet teach- 
ing, of old Benito and Elena and Cobb’s 
Court. They learned, too, of that first 
awakening to truth and light, the picnic at 
Saint Barnaby’s, of Father John, who had 
asked him to come and sing at Saint Mar- 
tin’s, of Ted and Joe and Dan, and all the 
other boys he had met on that wonderful 
day. 

And then, as good Mother Borromeo real- 
ized that Christmas at a convent might be a 
rather dull affair for so young and hvely a 
guest, she got busy with the telephone at 
once. Before very long Father John and 
all his sanctuary boys had heard Tony’s 
story, and the big Marvin sleigh was loaded 
up with a gleeful crowd of Saint Martin’s 
juveniles, eager to see and claim the young 
hero as their special care. 

As with a merry jingle of bells the sleigh 
dashed up to the convent door, with Ted 
and Joe and half a dozen others shouting 


138 


Safe in the Fold 

and cheering for him, Tony’s speech failed 
him and his black eyes nearly popped out of 
his head. For there in the front seat of the 
sleigh, arrayed luxuriously in coat and cap 
made out of Mrs. Marvin’s discarded seal- 
skin, a bunch of Christmas holly pinned 
on his breast — was Beppo! Beppo, who, 
though getting rather fat and lazy in good 
living — quite forgot his festive dress and 
dignity and made a wild leap from the sleigh 
to his old master’s arms. 

And so Tony was borne off triumphantly 
to the gayest, gladdest Christmas party his 
hard life had ever known. For what with 
the presentation of the prie-dieu and the 
poetical address to Father John, delivered 
by Ted, and the strange finding of Tony, 
Saint Martin’s Christmas was a thrilling 
affair this year. Arrayed by kind Mrs. 
Marvin in one of Ted’s jaunty suits, his dark 
curls brushed into order, his soft eyes still 
shadowed by the last night’s struggle and 


Safe in the Fold 


139 


strain, the little stranger was an object of 
general interest. Father Lorenzo Secchi 
was well known in the parish, where he had 
recently preached a Triduum while Father 
John’s guest, and the strange discovery of 
his dying nephew appealed to every heart. 
Quite unconscious that he was the hero of 
the hour, Tony was having the time of his 
life. He had attended Christmas gather- 
ings before at the various Sunday Schools 
into which he had found his way, a forlorn, 
beggarly little outsider whom nobody knew. 
But though the other halls had been as fes- 
tive in their decorations, and the Christmas 
trees as high, and the oranges and candy- 
bags quite as plentiful, there was a light and 
love and warmth here that Tony had never 
known before. It was like the sunshine of 
his own land after the long icy chill of the 
North. For the story of his childish search 
for the “good Jesus” to come and cure 
Lenny had stirred old and young alike. 


140 


Safe in the Fold 


“The darlint,” said good Mrs. Rafferty 
tenderly. “An’ he not a bit bigger than my 
own Mikey, to have faith in his heart like 
that. Trapesing eight miles through last 
night’s storm.” 

“Only the angels could have guided him 
as Father John said,” declared her friend, 
Mrs. Murray, in a moved voice. “Out of 
the heretic school where they were holding 
both of the poor little crathurs. And 
Father Laurence, looking high and low for 
his own lad this two years. Shure the ways 
of the Lord are wonderful.” 

“They are, indeed,” was the answer. 
“And why wouldn’t He that was born a 
little child on Christmas night, look after the 
innocents that trusted in Him! See the 
darling now playing with the monkey as if 
he had done nothing to talk about. And 
Father John telling the story of him with 
tears in his eyes at the late Mass.” 

“Gee, but you’re the big TT’ at Saint 


Safe in the Fold 


141 


Martin’s to-night,” laughed Ted as they sat 
together filling up on the Tutti-Frutti cream 
and plum cake that were the finishing treats 
of the evening. “Everybody is talking 
about you.” 

“Why?” asked Tony, breaking a piece of 
fruit cake into Beppo’s outstretched hand. 

“Oh, because — because you did such a 
bully thing last night,” continued Ted. 
“Gee, you had sand for a little chap. 
Breaking away from that durned old school 
and kiting out through the storm and the 
snow to find Father Laurence.” 

“Not Father Laurence,” said a kind 
voice behind the speakers, and Lenny’s uncle 
stepped forward smiling, and took a seat at 
Tony’s side. 

“It was not for me but the Good Shepherd 
Tony was looking, the loving Jesus Who 
would cure and save his little friend.” 

“And has He done it?” asked Tony eag- 
erly. “Has He cured Lenny?” 


142 


Safe in the Fold 


“Yes,” said F-ather Laurence, his dark 
eyes shining with happiness. “Yes, for 
awhile I thought He was taking my little 
boy to heaven, but He has given him back 
to our love, Tony. Lenny is getting better 
every moment. To-morrow we will take 
him to the good Sisters of Bon Secours to 
get well.” 

“And he will never go back to Vernon 
School!” said Tony, his bright face shadow- 
ing. “I will lose my friend — my pal — my 
brother forever — now.” 

“No,” Father Laurence’s slender hand 
closed softly over Tony’s brown fingers. 
“You will not lose your little friend and 
brother, my son, for though I have no claim 
on you as I have on Lenny, it seems (so 
good Mr. Barnard tells me) that according 
to the rules of Vernon School a boy who runs 
away can never be taken back.” 

“Then — then — .” Tony’s face was a study 


Safe in the Fold 


143 


of dismay. “It will be as Miss Melsom said, 
I will starve and freeze and die.” 

“Ah! no, no,” interrupted his listener ten- 
derly, “poor little lost lamb, no, no. You 
have made your way into the Good Shep- 
herd’s fold, Tony, to His arms, to His heart 
and He will never cast you out. He will 
care for you, watch over you, guide you in 
His own blessed ways, give you a happy 
home on earth, teach you how to reach a still 
brighter and happier one with Him in 
heaven.” 

And with Father Laurence and Father 
John, and all Saint Martin’s parish ready to 
befriend and help our little hero, this beauti- 
ful promise was fulfilled to the letter. 

Before the Christmas snows had alto- 
gether disappeared, Tony found himself in 
another school, a very different school from 
Vernon Hall. Tall trees sheltered the wide 
playgrounds, laughter and music echoed 


144 


Safe in the Fold 


through its corridors. There were no 
‘‘friendless boys” at Saint Benedict’s, for 
the teachers were all “Fathers” or “Broth- 
ers” who watched over delicate Lenny with 
motherly tenderness and guided rattle-pated 
Tony firmly but gently up the steps of 
knowledge that he no longer tried to shirk. 

There was no cutting wood here, he had to 
learn the better and more beautiful things 
that his Lenny’s lessons had foreshadowed to 
him at Vernon School. And there were 
pleasant gayeties, too, such as Friendless 
Boys never enjoyed — visits to the Marvin 
home where Ted’s mother had quite adopted 
Tony as one of her fiock, and Beppo lived in 
ease that delighted his little master’s heart. 

Then there were the outings with Father 
John, who felt the lost lamb he had discov- 
ered was his special care; gifts from Father 
Laurence, who, though he had gone back to 
his own Italian parish in a great Western 
City, kept in close touch with his two boys; 


Safe in the Fold 


145 


visits from old Elena, who had a good place 
in a restaurant where her spaghetti was the 
talk of the town; good old Elena who came 
out to Saint Benedict’s laden with dulces for 
her new-found boy. And Mr. Barnard, 
who, after an unpleasantness with Miss Mel- 
som regarding Tony’s departure, had given 
up his position at Vernon School, often made 
his way to Saint Benedict’s to see his former 
pupils, walk with them through the college 
grounds, and talk with their teachers from 
whom he was learning slowly but surely the 
lessons he had first caught from Lenny’s lips 
when he and Tony had chattered under the 
tangled vine. 

But best, dearest, closest of all — nearer 
than his pal and brother Lenny, was the 
Friend whom Tony was learning to know 
and love better every day, before Whom he 
knelt morning and evening in the college 
chapel, in Whose praise his clear young voice 
led the choir at Mass and Benediction, 


146 Safe in the Fold 

Whose Presence on the altar was the won- 
dering joy of his life. 

And there came a glad day at last when 
he, too, the lost lamb of Cobb’s Court, wore 
the white robe, the crimson sash, the silver 
cross of the first communicant, when the col- 
lege chapel rang with Easter Alleluias, and 
the altar rose, radiant with the “light and 
lilies” of his childish dreams, and the good 
Jesus came into Tony’s happy heart and 
made it forever His own. 

“It is all settled now,” said Tony to 
Lenny, as they talked together on the even- 
ing of that happy day. “Father John says 
I am too young to know what I will do — 
but I am very sure since this morning, 
Lenny, you will be a great musician like your 
father. 'But 1 — I will be Father Antonio 
and go over the mountains and the hills and 
into all the dark places, looking for my Mas- 
ter’s lamb and sheep. I will be a priest.” 


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9 


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11 


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net. 

0 

40 

net. 

0 

50 


1 

25 


1 

25 

net. 

0 

40 


1 

25 


1 

25 


1 

25 


1 

25 

net. 

0 

40 

net. 

0 

40 


1 

25 


1 

25 


1 

25 

net. 

0 

50 


1 

25 


1 

25 

net. 

0 

40 

net. 

0 

50 


1 

25 


1 

25 


1 

25 


12 


THREE LITTLE GIRLS', AND ESPECIALLY ONE. 


Taggart. net, 0 40 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. net, 0 SO 

TOM LOSELY: BOY. Copus. 1 25 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn. 1 25 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net, 0 40 

TOORALLADDY. By Julia C. Walsh. net, 0 40 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Waggaman. net, 0 SO 

TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUNTAIN. Taggart. net, 0 50 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack. net, 0 40 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clementia. 1 25 

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. Waggaman. net, 0 40 

VIOLIN MAKER, THE. Smith. net, 0 40 

WAYWARD WINIFRED. Sadlier. 1 25 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. Taggart. net, 0 50 

WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. Bearne. 1 25 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel. net, 0 40 


FATHER LASANCE’S PRAYER-BOOKS 

MY PRAYER-BOOK. Imitation leather, red edges, $1.25, and in 
finer bindings. 

THE YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE. Imitation leather, red edges, $1.00, 
and in finer bindings. 

THE CATHOLIC GIRL’S GUIDE. Imitation leather, red edges, 
$1.25, and in finer bindings. 

THE NEW MISSAL FOR EVERY DAY. Imitation leather, red 
edges. $1.50, and in finer bindings. 

THE SUNDAY MISSAL. Imitation leather, red edges, $1.00, and 
in finer bindings. 

the prisoner of love. Imitation leather, red edges, $1.25, 
and in finer bindings. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Thin Edition. Imitation leather, red 
edges, 75 cents, and in finer bindings. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Thin Edition, with the Epistles and 
Gospels. Imitation leather, $1.00. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Vest-pocket Edition. Silk cloth, 40 cents, 
and in finer bindings. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Extra-Large-Type Edition. Imitation lea- 
ther, red edges, $1.25, and in finer bindings. 

Complete list of Father Lasance’s Prayer-Books sent on application. 

BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 
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Subscription price, $2.50 a year. Three years, $6.00 

NOVELS 

Benziger’s Magazine has long been pre-eminent as THE magazine 
of Catholic fiction. It offers its subscribers four long novels a year 
(each being completed in three issues). These novels when issued 
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SHORT STORIES 

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H/JR. 


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